Dispatches from the Heart

by Ed Innerarity

  From: Ed Innerarity

  Sent: Monday, December 14, 2015 5:03 PM

  Subject: “Home team bats last”

  To All:

  Imagine that Santa really did come to your house with a Dr. Seuss size sleigh full of all the things you ever wanted. A puppy, those shoes, a vacation, a grandchild, new snow skis, whatever. All of those things, especially the important ones. Paige and I got that and more Friday before last at the annual Seton Hospital Transplant Christmas Party. Again, imagine being in a room with dozens and dozens of people who openly shared their hopes and fears, their pain and joy, their despair and their gratitude, each in their own way and in their own words. No two stories were the same, but many reflected what it is to be looking over the cliff from which there is no chance of survival only to have your death sentence taken away. Each story was unique to that recipient and it was like hearing it for the first time as the microphone was passed from one ugly Christmas sweater to the next. Sometimes the joy and appreciation overwhelmed that person so much they could not finish. Often his or her spouse struggled for the words after being so close to losing their loved one.

  In some ways, I was not a team player. I like people as much as the next guy, but on the diving board or tennis court, you are not shoulder-to-shoulder with others wearing the same color jersey. Last Friday was different. I am walking through the same minefield with every man and woman and every spouse in the McFadden Auditorium. (Not to mention all of those with a heart pump or heart mate. In many ways, their road is rockier still.) I told someone recently that the initiation was difficult but this is the coolest group I am a member of. Not all of us made it; I am told that I almost did not. But what we may have lacked in previous heart function has more than been made up with appreciation. Appreciation for our donor and his family, for the miracle of science that made this even a dream. Appreciation for those that supported us during our travails. Appreciation for today and then tomorrow. For each new day.

  The last guy to speak was an eloquent black Baptist minister, although I think that is redundant. Some years ago, he received a new heart from a donor named Darrel. The reverend’s words moved me to tears; then he introduced his guests, Darrel’s sister and mother. You can only imagine.

  I struggle to find the words to describe the Texas size pile of gifts heaped on our table last Friday. Each day, I have trouble finding the words just in conversations with myself. Think this is why I have shared those songs with you.

  Live well and Merry Christmas to all of you.

  ed

  To those of you that ask about the music: there is no single song that perfectly matches the thoughts and emotions for all that I went through with the transplant. “Heart of Gold” came close. So did “Why Me, Lord.” Just like there are no words to describe how we feel with our newborn child, or how we might feel in the middle of a stream late in the evening.

  Admittedly, I have included today a song that you might have to think about to see how, or if, it fits this situation. It did for me. By coincidence, Buck Owens died in Bakersfield (and of heart problems no less). And that is Flaco Jiménez on the accordion. (The song is “Streets of Bakersfield.”)

  The other song is pretty obvious (“One Love”). RIP Bob and Buck.

  And Happy Birthday, Paige.

  [Songs #13 and #14. Attached to this email were links to “Streets of Bakersfield” by Dwight Yoakum with Buck Owens and “One Love” by Bob Marley.]

  ECMO: An extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (ECMO) machine provides both cardiac and respiratory support outside the body to persons whose heart and lungs cannot provide an adequate amount of gas exchange to sustain life. The ECMO drains blood from the vein, adds oxygen and removes carbon dioxide, warms the blood, returns the blood to the artery, and pumps the blood through the body. This machine allows the blood to bypass the heart and lungs.

  From: Ed Innerarity

  Sent: Wednesday, May 18, 2016 11:40 AM

  Subject: “I did not come this far only to come this far”

  Fellow runners,

  I am a very fortunate guy.

  My mother died of CHF a little over 10 years ago. Watching her struggle at the end just to breathe was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. Right after her service, I got checked out to see if I had “it” too. “It” is a genetic trait that causes cardiomyopathy, a gradual loss of the heart’s ability to pump blood. It often leads to death from acute congestive heart failure, as it did in my mother’s case. I am fortunate because I got checked out early and while the end point would be the same, its arrival might be deferred. I was also fortunate because when I was diagnosed, I was told that I would not die of old age. With certain meds and exercise, I could fully enjoy the 5, 10, or 15 years I had left. I decided right then, I would try to make the most of the finite but as yet undetermined number of life units I had left. I already had significantly reduced heart function, but I still did life. All the life I could. I did my elliptical training. I fished and hiked in Colorado. Babe and I hunted birds. I still walked when I played golf. I even climbed Half Dome a few years ago. I was very fortunate. The doctor said my body had compensated. My cardiomyopathy life was as full as most and probably more so.

  I was fortunate because I began to pay more attention to life. I never took a single round of golf for granted. Whenever I broke 80, I wondered if it might be my last time to do so. I knew each trip to the mountains might be my last if I became unable to breathe, which I did. Later, I cut back on backpack trips in case I developed an irregular heart rhythm, which I did. I all but stopped taking fishing, golfing, or hunting trips out of town because of the ever more frequent episodes of acute dyspnea. Hard to enjoy a nice trip if you can’t walk across the hotel lobby without having to sit and catch your breath. Hard to feel very manly if you can’t open the door, pull back her chair, or carry the luggage for your wife. As I got closer to the end, I looked just like my dying mother, unable to breathe, but I did not lose my appreciation for each day. I did not come this far only to come this far.

  I’m a very fortunate guy. As Graham Nash said, I have more than what I wanted. OK, I always wanted to dance and speak like Ricky Ricardo, but besides that.

  And then some man died, and his family carried out his wishes. His heart was to be donated. And then some really fine doctors decided I was a perfect match, or perhaps his heart was a perfect match for me. And the next thing you know, his heart is in my chest. Right now, his heart is pumping blood through my body, allowing these thoughts to be written.

  So here it is, coming up on 11 months. I plan on being so busy this summer, I will probably forget the actual anniversary date. I am so sure. And I am sure America will elect a president this year that we all adore. I’ve been fortunate to be able to spend these past 11 months doing mostly what I want and what I need to do. Lots of rest for a while there. Lots of rehab although it is pretty much the same routine I did most of my adult life. Try to stay fit; you never know what might come up. Lots of reflection of how I got to where I am.

  Since I was eight or nine years old, I liked the idea of a pecan orchard. Maybe it’s too late, but over this past winter, I planted 50 new young pecan trees to go with the decades-old trees on our farm. This spring I took small branches from the best pecan varieties and grafted them onto some of my new young trees. Everything was going so well. Then a tornado hit our farm in March and did quite a job on some of our 100-plus-year-old trees. I took branches ripped off by the storm and spliced those onto young trees as well. Our very largest and oldest pecan tree, the one our logo is based on, took a direct hit by the twister. This stately 150-year-old gal lost two-thirds of her branches. We had to use the tractor to haul off thousands of pounds of limbs and I feared the worst for that tree. But she had not endured since the Civil War, provided shade for the Wichita, Comanche, and Caddo, witnessed the passing of the jaguar and the bison, and provided food for deer, turkeys, and feral hogs just to be finished off by an F1.

  I wasn’t neces
sarily very good at grafting, especially at first. Somehow, just being out there by myself, splicing parts of one tree onto another, was enough reward. Almost enough. And this past week at the farm, I noticed the first of the grafted scion wood had taken. And some day, that small native pecan tree will produce nuts genetically identical to the donor tree. I like that. It makes me realize how fortunate I am.

  Live well, like part of you will be grafted onto somebody else someday.

  ed

  Today’s song is “Long May You Run.” This was written in the early ’70s, after CSN had broken up, and was actually played at the Vancouver Winter Olympics in 2010.

  [Song #15. Attached to this email was a link to “Long May You Run” by Neil Young.]

  From: David Koch

  Sent: Wednesday, May 18, 2016 12:34 PM

  Subject: Re: “I did not come this far only to come this far”

  Ed—thanks again for sharing your amazing insights . . . your words are inspiring and moving and I treasure what you have shared . . . I hope you know that you were never alone in your journey . . . let’s go as fast as we can for as far as we can!!!

  From: Lisa Mink

  Date: Wednesday, May 18, 2016 9:39 PM

  Subject: Re: “I did not come this far only to come this far”

  To date, my favorite story you’ve written. Thanks for including me in your emails. I feel special!

  Lisa

  From: Ed Innerarity

  Sent: Friday, July 1, 2016 10:35 PM

  Subject: One year ago

  “In every walk with Nature,

  one receives far more than he seeks.”

  —JOHN MUIR

  Dear Friends and Family,

  One year ago, almost to the hour, I was being prepared for my surgery. I was about to embark on the biggest challenge of my life as well as the greatest adventure. You guys pretty much know what has happened in the last year. My recovery has not been linear but almost everything in the past year has been good. The friends I met in the transplant program have been through difficulty but are inspirational examples for me to try to follow. I have really learned a lot from one such friend, who is really struggling. He is looking down the well of his own mortality. Though they were not part of my program, in the past few months, I have attended memorial services for a couple of transplant recipients that have gone on to Glory. I have learned much from their battles as well.

  This is when I usually turn to John Denver or George Harrison to help me with the words that escape me. But not this time, I am on my own. I was pretty much finished writing these updates, but the one-year anniversary was too big to ignore. I made a point of going fly fishing late this evening, in the rain and overcast and mosquitoes, to be on the river, fly rod in hand at precisely the same time I sent you guys my Day Ninety-three update, just outside the operating room. For those of you that do not know me well, this is not about fish, maybe not even fishing. It is rather how I feel, with my favorite fly rod, alone on the river with My Creator, witnessing His majesty, His very fingerprints on every drop of rain, on every cloud that hangs on the mountains beside me, on every bit of white water on the river and part of every creature that calls this place home. I choose to physically be here tonight just as I was in spirit exactly one year ago. I am sure you all have your own such places; perhaps the beach, a farm or ranch, the lake, maybe an old church. Probably not the dentist.

  All of you helped me get back here and I thank you from the bottom of my new heart.

  I like to close by saying “live well, like . . .” I would like each of you to finish this one for me. I would love to hear how you would complete that sentence.

  Living well,

  ed

  From: Lisa Mink

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 12:50 AM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Ed,

  Happy one year “heart-a-versary,” Ed. And many, many more!

  Say hi to the orcas for me. And for old times’ sake, I will get the 20-gauge IV ready for the next time you’re in clinic!

  “Live well, like you’ve been given a second chance at life.”

  Much love,

  Lisa

  From: Caroline Cowden

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 7:16 AM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Live well . . . like Ed!!!!! Your journey has been amazing and an incredible inspiration to me and so many others!!! I feel blessed to have been a small part of what you endured and the victorious outcome! Through it all, you never really thought about yourself. Your concerns were for your family, the donor, the donor’s family, other people on the transplant list, and now, people who are facing what you were!!!! You appreciate every minute of every day and are eternally grateful to God for EVERYTHING! That is why I say live well like Ed!!!! Happy one year anniversary/birthday Ed!!!!

  All my love,

  Caroline

  From: Winsome McIntosh

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 9:17 AM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Dear Ed,

  I knew you were a gifted fisherman. I knew you were a gifted oilman. I knew you were a gifted family man. I knew you were a gifted communicator. Until your health crisis, I didn’t know what a gifted writer you are. We’ve exchanged these “updates” for events stretching from 2014 to now and I am so very grateful to be a part of your cheering squad.

  Live Well with grace and courage to meet life’s challenges and share/ help others along the way . . . just like Ed.

  See you soon in Alaska!

  Winsome

  From: Rebecca Innerarity

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 3:28 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  “Live well, like our Creator intended us to live.”

  Rebecca

  From: David Hurta

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 4:57 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Happy birthday, Ed. From now on, I won’t think about how old you are; I will remember how new you are. Today, you are one year new!

  Continue to live well, my good friend, and continue to live long.

  David.

  From: David Koch

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 2016 6:25 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Ed—thanks for your messages of inspiration . . . we should all live well . . . and celebrate each day as the day we have been reborn . . . celebrate the most amazing of all anniversaries!

  david

  From: David Terreson

  Sent: Monday, July 4, 2016 5:54 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Ed,

  I was thinking about your note the other day when our minister made the comment in church “God is not through writing your story.” Seems clearly obvious in retrospect, less so on the front end or in the middle. The impact you have had with sharing your story, your courage, and selflessness on everyone fortunate enough to have been around is unique and a blessing to all of us.

  I’d say “Live well—like it matters.” Because it does—you are a testament to that.

  David Terreson

  From: Monica Gose

  Sent: Tuesday, July 5, 2016 7:44 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Ed,

  I say Live well—with your mind, body, and soul like there is no tomorrow. By looking at you I can see the possibilities are endless.

  Love you,

  Monica

  From: Mickey Trimble

  Sent: Thursday, July 7, 2016 3:20 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  In response to your request to finish the sentence, I guess I would revise it a little and simply say, “Live well, today and every day to the Glory of our LORD.”

  MT

  From: Ashley Wineinger

  Sent: Monday, July 11, 2016 2:00 PM

  Subject: Re: One year ago

  Ed—

  I would have to say “Live well, with depth.”

  Depth in relationships . . . saying what i
s on your heart and important, whenever you have the opportunity.

  Depth of empathy . . . feeling strongly to others, in their great joys and in real sorrows and losses.

  Depth in experiences . . . sucking the marrow out of life.

  Depth of insight . . . really seeing; being a noticer.

  Love,

  Ashley

  From: Jim Kemper

  Sent: Sunday, July 10, 2016 4:37 PM

  Subject: Favorite Verse, Favorite Movie

  Ed—

  The following thoughts came to me during our talks in the car, traveling between hunting spots in South Dakota. There’s nothing like near-death life experiences and hunting together to conjure up meaningful, valuable conversation. It’s taken this long for me to sit down and assemble it in writing. This anniversary seems as appropriate a time as any to share with you.

  I have a tradition I’ve shared with each of my four children, whenever they turned 13 years old. The two of us go on a “grown up” ski trip, during which we take 4–5 days to study the book of Proverbs and discuss how to recognize the wise man, the fool, the scoffer, the seducer, etc. You taught me, when I was a teenager, how hunting and getting away on adventures allows time to figure out life. Every night, during my trips with my children, we would read and study the words that the wisest man in the world wrote to his child, to prepare that child for adulthood. After four trips, with four children, I’ve assembled several key verses, but from the beginning of the tradition, the verse that remains the theme verse and the “take-away” message is Proverbs 4:23.