The following excerpt is from pages 115-117 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love
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The surgeon walked into the waiting room to tell Sandra that the procedure was a success and that there were no complications. In his no-nonsense manner, he advised her that my heart was badly damaged, and it would be a rough road ahead. He described to those gathered in the cramped waiting room how cardiologists measure heart function to determine how much dam-
age resulted from a heart attack. They use a calculation called the “ejection fraction,” which is the percentage of oxygenated blood that is pumped from the lower-left chamber of the heart
into the bloodstream with each heartbeat. In a healthy heart, 55 to 65 percent of the blood in the lower-left chamber is released into the body with every thrust. The doctor explained that the ejection fraction of my heart after completion of the procedure measured less than 30 percent. I would never be the same, he added. I would have to dramatically alter my lifestyle.
The room remained silent. Shelley later said that she was in shock and that she couldn’t grasp what had happened. Pancho started weeping and saying, “This can’t be real.” Our godson William Medina sat down, put his face in his hands, and began to sob. The doctor concluded by saying that I would be in the intensive care unit (ICU) in recovery for a couple of hours, then assigned to a room in the cardiac care unit (CCU) where the family could visit. There was a sense of relief combined with apprehension in the waiting room. Even though everyone gathered in a circle to hold hands to pray and thank God for saving my life, hope was in
short supply.
Just before midnight, hospital personnel rolled the bed from the ICU to the CCU. I was groggy, but I remember seeing my family and friends lined along the wide hallway waiting to see me. Mr. and Mrs. Peralta, my boss, the Medinas, Miguel, and Pancho were the first to come into view. Things were moving in slow motion again. Everyone was blurry and out of focus. They looked concerned as they saw the gurney roll by. When I saw Sandra and the girls, I felt safe and comfortable. I knew that everything was going to be fine, even though I don’t remember the looks on their faces.
During that brief moment, Valerie and Miguel said that I stuck out my arm, pushed my hand against the wall to stop the gurney, and asked Marisa and Erica if they were all right. Others remembered it a little differently. According to those observations, it appeared as though I wanted to protect Marisa and Erica when I saw them. I presumably put on my game face and weakly waved to those pushing the bed, asking them to stop. I smiled at
the girls as if to say, “I’m OK.”
Regardless of how those few seconds unfolded, one thing is clear. I was in a state of semiconsciousness, yet my immense love for Sandra and the girls and my fatherly instincts kicked in to provide me with a relentless drive to fight for my life. Faced with the real prospect of death, the deepest parts of my soul knew that my family gave me the courage to live. In his Letter to the Romans, Saint Paul the Apostle tells us that the first step to living with hope is to “rejoice in our sufferings.” I didn’t realize it at the moment, but the suffering that I endured on June 7, 2010, marked the beginning of living a life full of hope.
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On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!
RSVP at this link:
ESEReport.com 