It’s been a very long journey to the highest mountain of them all
By James Street*
April 12, 2022—I awoke this morning in a pensive mood. Today is the third anniversary of my heart transplant, one of the most transformative experiences of my life.
My heart transplant came as a result of a virus I contracted in December, 2001. Linda sat with me the February after that when a cardiologist told us I had congestive heart failure. Tears streamed down her cheeks as I asked the doctor about my prognosis. He said, “You may get better, you may get worse, you may stay the same.”
A sprint toward death
Today I am thinking about this journey that has been my life for more than 20 years. My doctor’s glib prognosis missed the mark in a couple of ways. I did not stay the same at all, and getting better was more about symptoms than the underlying condition. At first, congestive heart failure baby-stepped its way in a slow, downward deterioration of my health. But when this visitor was about 17 years old, it sprinted its way toward death.
I entered Emory University hospital February 19, 2019. Although there were good days, I descended into a nightmare of suffering and pain, both physical and psychological, for the next 60 or so days. Delirium stalked me for much of that 81-day hospital stay and overwhelmed me for ten days following the transplant.
Emory discharged me the day before Mother’s Day in May, 2019. I had lost 50 pounds. My muscles had atrophied. Recovery slow-crawled for months, but I returned to preaching on August 11, 2019.
My family, my church, and my friends supported me through it all. The prayers of people all over the world sustained me.
Grief, struggle, another diagnosis, and then another
Linda’s 60-year-old sister died in late August that year. We moved her mother into assisted living. We sold the family home. While we grieved those astounding losses, I struggled in secret with the trauma that came with the delirium I had suffered.
COVID came to Georgia in the early Spring of 2020. All of our lives were marked by everything that came with that global pandemic and everything that still endures. But that wasn’t the worst of it for me. In June that year, I was knocked flat by another virus, cytomegalovirus (CMV). I caught it from the heart I had received. It ran all over me because of my suppressed immune system. I told Linda that if symptoms could kill you, I would be a dead man. I lay in the hospital with it for two weeks.
One week after discharge, a skull-crushing headache drove me back to Emory. A neurologist diagnosed my agony as occipital neuralgia. She told me it was unrelated to the virus, to the many meds I took, and to the heart transplant. They discharged me after a week to go home and infuse myself for five hours a day, seven days a week, with a drug designed to destroy the remaining CMV virus that lurked in my blood. This new drug brought low-grade flu symptoms for the next six months.
Old self, bigger challenge
In April, 2021, I announced to Linda, “I finally feel like my old self!”
But Linda started feeling bad in May, 2021. After administering tests, the doctors said she was suffering with advanced liver disease. Now it was her turn to enter Emory, in July, with internal bleeding. They released her in August into a facility where she received physical therapy for almost a month. After that, she moved in and out of the hospital until early December. She underwent 13 endoscopies to stanch internal bleeding and was put on a ventilator once.
She faced each day with grace and peace.
I became her caregiver between hospital stays. Her last stay in the hospital ended December 5. She returned home to await the the possibility of a liver transplant.
She died suddenly and unexpectedly while we sat in bed watching morning TV December 8, 2021.
This post is appearing April 16, Holy Saturday as some call it. Today I will gather with family and friends to mourn the death of my beloved bride of 47 years,.
High mountain, clear voice
I took one Sunday off after Linda died and then returned, grieving, to Zoom preaching. A few weeks ago, my congregation and I ascended a high mountain where we saw Jesus burst into bright light, and speak with Moses and Elijah. We saw him glow at the sound of his Father’s voice: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him!” (Matthew 17:1-8 ESV).
I described to my little congregation how the terrified disciples fell on their faces at the sound of that Voice. I had just begun to describe how Jesus …
I cannot explain what happened next.
For only a second or two, I lay face down with the disciples. I felt my nose pressed to the ground, my labored breath rebounded to my face, I felt the touch of a hand on my shoulder.
“Do not fear.”
My throat caught. I could not speak. I burst into tears.
My beloved congregation sat silent, muted. They are used to my crying.
After an eternity of seconds struggling to speak, I managed to squeak out the last words of the story: “They looked up and saw Jesus only.”
And, by the grace of the God of all comfort, so did I.
Above photos by Omer Salom and Taylor Brandon at Unsplash
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* Dr. James Street is pastor of North River Community Church and Adjunct Faculty in Christian Ministry at Point University. He is the father of one daughter, Amber, and Papa to two granddaughters, Bella and Millie. In his spare time, he writes songs and plays guitar.