For one family, the gift of life will never be forgotten
Most times, a 3 a.m. phone call doesn’t come with good news. For my family, one of these was a game changer.
Early on a Thursday morning in November 2004, I received a phone call from Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit: My father, who had suffered with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) for years, was going to receive a lung transplant. There was no guarantee he would survive the surgery and if my wife and I wanted to see him before the procedure started we had to be at the hospital by 5:30 a.m.
I recall pulling on warm up pants and a hoodie. The drive to Detroit from our home in Macomb County was a blur. Speed limits were broken and I’m sure red lights were ignored.
As they wheeled Dad into the operating room, he was a mix of trepidation and excitement. While facing his own mortality head on, what was about to happen would allow him to live a life that he had not had for years.
Oxygen tanks with hundreds of yards of hoses attached to them had been the lifeline at his Roseville home. Steps were slow and deliberate, much more so than any man in his 60s should have. Anywhere he went, a portable oxygen tank was his inseparable accessory.
My dad had been on the transplant list for several years with no luck. In fact, when the procedure finally happened, he was only three months away from being taken off of it as his 65th birthday approached.
Throughout that Thursday morning, we waited. And waited. After five hours that seemed like five days, a surgeon emerged to let us know he was on a heart and lung machine, had so far survived. Also, when they got in and realized the severity of damage to both lungs, they made the decision to transplant both. Barring any complications the procedure was going to last 12-14 hours.
Stunned but hopeful for a positive outcome, we went back to waiting. Eventually, sometime that evening, the surgeon emerged again to let us know the procedure appeared to be a success.
What awaited us in a recovery room can best be described as being akin to Steve Austin when he was being built into the “Bionic Man” in the hit 1970s television series. Tubes and hoses went everywhere and they not only carried drugs and bodily fluids but the hope for a better life.
Over the next seven weeks, with the help of doctors, therapists and physician’s assistants, dad emerged from his hospital bed then, just after Christmas, from the hospital itself.
By the springtime, Dad bought a new truck, was doing the shopping and even was considering getting a part-time job. That spring and summer was filled with barbecues and family gatherings. Dad was back to being the man COPD had taken years from.
Unfortunately, this story doesn’t have a happy ending. In September 2005, Dad began to again labor for air. On a Thursday, we gathered with doctors at Henry Ford and were told what we all suspected. His body had rejected the transplanted lungs and it was only a matter of time before he would need to be intubated.
We discussed that and he had no interest. After having a taste of his old life back, Dad really had no interest in living a life managed by a machine.
On a Saturday, Dad rallied. I went to Henry Ford Hospital with a cooler of pop and we watched Michigan State win a thrilling overtime football game against Notre Dame. Perhaps there was hope?
On Sept. 18, 2005, David Gerald Logan Payne died.
Three days later I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, on my own birthday. I remember thinking about the irony of that more than once. I remember feeling anger about being given a gift only to have it snatched away.
As time has gone on, I have come to appreciate the gift of life that my father received even if it only lasted for a spring and summer.
The gift we received is one thousands of others have also received. For some it undoubtedly lasts longer. But more than 15 years later, the images of my dad carrying groceries in from a red truck and firing up the grill that summer are ones I will always carry with me.