Imagine being a 15-year-old on a heart-transplant waiting list for nearly two years. Instead of playing sports or being carefree with your friends, you are confined to a hospital room every day for six months — hooked up to sterile, cold, beeping machines.
After days of waiting and hoping, the day comes when doctors deliver the worst news imaginable: You only have a few months left to live. Those days will be spent at home in the care of family and friends.
You have no hope.
I know this nightmare, because I lived it.
Nearly 20 years ago, I lived through the dark stages of hopelessness. I lived through the mental preparation of saying a final goodbye to my parents and my brothers.
I picked out the readings for my funeral service, the music, the pallbearers.
And then suddenly, on an otherwise-somber day, as I awaited death, I got a miraculous glimmer of hope. My parents and I were presented with the idea of taking a chance on a new heart surgery.
Though the likelihood of success was very small, the surgery would be an option for me. And simply performing the surgery would allow the doctors to learn a great deal for the next child who faced a similar challenge.