As the era of the coronavirus/Covid 19 continues, now into its 18 month or more, I sit and reflect on the past year. Not the dreaded 2020 exactly, but the year of August, 2020 to August, 2021 or what I regard distastefully as my year of 50. On August 20, 2020, I turned 50 years old, a number I had been dreading for months, years really. What was great about turning 50 in 2020, in my opinion, was if you wished, like me, for the day to go pretty much unrecognized, uncelebrated, you could easily do so. And boy did I. No party, no teasing, no grim-reaper cake, no gag-gifts–I wanted none of it. If I can be honest, sorry friends and family, I really just wanted to sleep right though the day, from the 19th straight through until the 21st, with no phone calls, texts, social media posts. In essence, I wanted the day not to exist. Of course, I didn’t get my wish. My husband arranged a small dinner with my parents, sister, and brother-in-law where we ate outdoors in a recently opened, however restricted-seating, restaurant. At home, my kids waited with balloons, a cake, and a pair of diamond earrings–the day ended up being about as perfect as not skipping it would have been.

Make no mistake, like so many, my family could not ignore what had happened in the world around us up to that point. As white, mostly suburban, middle class Americans, we were/are 100% aware of our privilege everyday, but especially during the last 18 months. While we worked and schooled from home, ordered our groceries online, diligently wore our masks, and got vaccinated the moment we could; we also watched in horror at the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, we grieved as the virus ripped through poor communities and the elderly–charting the numbers of infected and the death toll in our county on a calendar. Instead of adding our voices to the BLM marches and protests, we watched from the sidelines because I let my fear of the virus out-weigh my fear of the persecution my fellow humans faced on a daily basis–a shame I still carry with me. Let me be clear, I, in no way, compare our struggles to those mentioned above and so, so many more. I am simply writing a reflection on my personal journey through the year I turned 50. For me, that quiet Thursday evening toward the end of August ushered in a time of personal challenges and reflection for the six people sitting at the table that night.

So let me provide a little history:

• December, 2009: My brother-in-law (sister’s husband), at the age of 37, was diagnosed with liver disease he acquired from a blood transfusion as a newborn.
• March, 2016: My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer.
• September, 2019: My mother was formally diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease (she had been experiencing many symptoms prior to that date, but the formal diagnoses didn’t come for nearly a year after).

Fast-forward to the spring of 2020, just as everything shut down, my dad had to start in-hospital chemotherapy. As he had treatments, he often drove himself to and from the hospital, since no one else was permitted to accompany him. Many times my mother would drop him off and then return, hours later, when he called. Our entire family went on high alert. No one could risk any exposure on the off-chance my sister or I would need to be available to help my parents. through this time, like many other families, we had minimal actual contact with the grandparents of our family. Between the 11 of us, we had seven birthdays which were celebrated via FaceTime, Facebook video chats, Zoom, etc. My August birthday was our first “together”, even though it excluded my parents’ five grandkids.

In September, 2020, my father was powering through his chemo treatments. His doctor had hoped he might get through six before needing a break. At this point, his exhausted body had allowed him to hit nine with no sign of stopping. During this time, with a family as close as mine, my sister began a group chat with my parents and me. Nearly every morning between 7 and 8 AM, one of us would send a message to the others with good morning wishes, Bitmojis declaring a lack of sleep or the need for much coffee, or questions about the day’s appointments or events. It’s odd to me as I look back over this time how close we became as a result of our forced time apart. We had never communicated each and every day. Ever.

A family dealing with one cancer patient is plenty, but by the end of the month, we would have two. My 48 year old brother-in-law learned in addition to his liver disease, which had held steady for 11 years, he now had small tumors–cancer–on his liver. Cancer combined with disease meant he needed a transplant.

More history. It is quite difficult to qualify for a liver transplant. You need to be incredibly sick and finding a healthy cadaver liver is miniscule–a recipient’s best chance is through a living, direct donor, but even then it’s pretty challenging to find someone healthy enough AND willing. Furthermore, liver transplant is one of the most difficult surgeries there is. The donor is on the operating table typically for five to eight hours. The recipient’s surgery often lasts closer to 12 hours.

Enter me. Have you ever just known something would happen? This was me in November of 2020. I cannot explain to how or why I knew I would be my brother-in-law’s donor; I just did. The amazing hospital in our area (UPMC in Pittsburgh) had pioneered transplants. But they had some basic qualifications: under 54, same blood type, good health. I had been 50 for three months. Check. I am in great health. Check. I have O negative blood, the universal donor. Check. Yes, I still needed to go through all of the tests–28 vials of blood, testing for everything–even syphilis to my surprise–a colonoscopy, a current mammogram, updated PAP, MRI (during which I had a massive panic attack), a chest x-ray, CT scan, psychological evaluation–I thought my years of anxiety might end my chances here. After weeks of testing, I learned I was a perfect candidate–right down to my “man-sized” liver (Generally the donor needs to be a similar size as the recipient, so that the liver will be large enough. My brother-in-law is six feet tall; I am 5’6. Everyone, including the doctors, thought I would not be able to be a direct match. However, according to my amazing surgeon, my liver was large–“man-sized”.) By this point it was mid-January. I had been asked when my ideal time to donate would be–after all, the donor dictates most everything–“June,” I responded. I am a teacher, and I hoped to get through what had been the most insane school year, thanks to Covid. However, around January 20, I received the call, “We need to go sooner. Your recipient cannot wait.”

There are no words to properly express the shock of that phone call. Shock to hear I would need to upend my life in just weeks. Staggering shock at the news my brother-in-law was, in fact, incredibly sick. According to his doctor at the review panel, he would not survive if we waited until June. My brother-in-law, this person who had been in my life for nearly 30 years, would not survive another five months. I can remember clutching the phone and breaking into a sweat, unable to utter a syllable. After returning to my senses, I negotiated for February 18–2 days shy of 50 1/2 years old (remember, this is about my 50th year…). The truly weird part of being an organ donor is that you know far more than your recipient does. My brother-in-law had been excluded from almost all of the details, and I understand why. But there are no words to explain how strange it is to call a family member to tell them the surgery date that will change their life–to tell them they are too sick to wait. The entire phone call seemed surreal (it would be more than a week before he would be called by his coordinator regarding the transplant date). We had a few short weeks to get our entire personal and professional lives ready.

More history:

• My father had stopped chemo treatments by this point to try and regain some strength.
• My mother had fallen seven times from September to December of 2020. Once crossing a major intersection, where college students walking nearby had to help her up and once on a golf course, which had resulted in broken ribs.

To say this surgery would be challenging for our entire family, is an understatement. Even though he and I were ready, a huge factor of our success was my parents staying healthy and accident-free during our time in the hospital and for at least a month or so of recovery. Both our spouses would be responsible for not only us–we would both be out of the hospital within a week of having surgery–but also managing the everyday lives of our children, they simply weren’t able to manage more. This may have been the biggest gamble of the entire situation–it was the topic of many conversations between the four of us as the surgery date loomed before us.

So as I reflect on the six months which have lapsed since our surgery–as the country has come out of hibernation and may have to slide back in with another surge upon us, on birthdays now being celebrated together rather than by video, on the hard days and weeks of recovery post-surgery (future blogs will be dedicated to the details of the surgery, the hospital stays, and our recoveries, so stay tuned), when I notice the six-inch scar which now decorates my abdomen, when my goofy brother-in-law causes me to laugh as he always has, when I look at the faces of my niece and nephew and hug my sister at the conclusion of a vacation where the 9 of the 11 members of my family traveled together (my oldest children could not attend), and in my final four days of 50; I know that this year has been the greatest of my life. That donating 60% of my liver was the greatest gift I could have received this year. It is something I would never take back or exchange, and it has meant as much to the giver as I suspect it has for the receiver.