Celebrating a beautiful Alaskan life and living with heart failure!
Call #4 has come in and it's starting at 4pm today. We don't have days to prepare like previous calls so we have decided that the kids and I will fly down today or tomorrow, whenever I can arrange flights.
Please pray! The doctors say they want to go ahead and get started soon.
I panicked and asked a kid at the high school what his name was, and explained why. Thus, this donor is Jayden until/unless we find out otherwise.
A week ago Patrick received his third transplant call. With this one the emotions snuck up on me, and this past week has been heavy and not conducive to writing an update. But more has happened in the last couple of days that warrants this post.
First, this third call didn’t last long in comparison to the second one. Patrick’s phone rang on Saturday at 8:00am to say a heart was available, and it rang again at 2:30pm to say the transplant was canceled. The heart was found to be not optimal for transplantation.
In that time I had the kids halfway packed, I had made arrangements for the dog, arranged for my plane ticket the following day, and prepared myself for the awful truth of imminent heart transplantation.
I made plans with a gentleman who wished to buy a knife, leaving him a voicemail that was both the fastest and the clearest I have ever spoken. During that one minute message I realized I was amped. It felt like I had shotgunned my morning pot of coffee. A coffee bong instead of a beer bong. Some of you will be able to visualize that.
The highlight of the day was the gentleman who purchased the knife, who knew the day’s circumstances and who returned post-cancellation call to ask how things were progressing. The humanity displayed in that small gesture was humbling. I had to tell him the bad news. It wasn’t meant to be.
The kids and I left the shop early that day. I don’t remember what we did but I know our day ended with unpacking - putting my toothbrush back on the shelf, my clothes back in the drawer, and having the very confused golden retriever watch as I emptied the bag of dog toys onto the floor.
I remember feeling the complete opposite of what the morning had caused. I was coming down off the high caused by the necessity to completely uproot my family and the knowledge that trauma waited for us just around the corner. I didn’t have to imagine not being able to see Patrick before he went in for surgery. I could let go of the visions of him on a hospital bed, covered in tubes and drains, his eyes taped shut and his chest incision exposed. I remember the noises and the smells of the hospital recovery room from his bypass in 2007 and imagine the transplant will be incredibly similar, only… worse.
I remember sitting on the couch that night watching something on the television, but feeling that ever-present sensation of flux - that this wasn’t the one, but another one is coming. I think it would be similar to being directed to walk into someone else’s house, told that this was your living room, your couch, your television, and all the while thinking that you didn’t belong there. It is an unsettling sensation.
I named this donor Brandon. I wondered if Brandon’s family went through similar thoughts and emotions that we did - the suddenness of the call and the subsequent cancellation. But I have a constant awareness in my mind, helped along by the humanization of naming our donors when we will never truly know these men or their families, that they are going through something far worse than what Patrick and I are.
They are losing sons. Fathers. Uncles. Brothers. Nephews. It’s final. There is no alternative.
I stand to gain decades with my husband, benefiting from their unimaginable tragedy. I only hope when the time comes, that they will want to get to know us. I pray they see the product of their sacrifice in Patrick’s love for his family, and in his faith and his service centered heart. I want them to be our new family, if they will have us.
Of course, both Patrick and I are aware some donor families don’t wish for that. It’s too hard. It’s too difficult to know their loved one is gone and someone else’s is thriving at that person’s expense.
This is where I say, in either scenario we give them love. Unconditional, never truly understood love. We don’t know what they are going through, but we feel a deep, profound love for every single one of these gentlemen - Steve, Alex, Brandon - their families, and the ones who will come. It is unexplainable, but I also feel like we don’t have to explain it. I hope they understand.
On Wednesday night Patrick told me he felt like he was coming down with a cold. He was much worse Thursday, but Patrick is a stubborn man. I told him to go to the hospital but he insisted it was just a bad cold.
When his heart began to feel sick he decided to go in. It’s Covid, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Our first bout with the virus in March 2020 was brutal. That first wave hit us like a freight train and my two weeks of symptoms ended with the only time I have ever been afraid I was going to die - when my lungs started to feel tight. This wasn’t a welcome sensation after already hearing for several weeks that ventilators and death were common destinations for people who experienced lung trouble.
After two weeks I became worse before I got better. Patrick is fully vaccinated, which is a requirement for transplant eligibility. He is also wise to the disease this time around, and knows what it can do. My prayer is this bout with Covid is swift, and that healing comes fast. I never imagined having to fly to Washington for any reason other than a transplant.
Patrick is home and resting, but completely wiped out. While I wish I could be there for him, I’m glad he’s in good hands and is surrounded by good people who care about him.
It has been a week since Patrick's second transplant call and we are slowly getting back into the New Normal groove of life. It's different this time around, because whereas December 22nd felt like a fluke - (what are the chances he would get a call after just two and a half weeks of being on the list??) - January 13th felt like divine intervention.
The universe wants Patrick to have a heart, and in a big way.
So while we know another call might not come in for a month, two months, or more, we are attempting to live for all eventualities including receiving another call this very minute.
We have thus far declined most offers of help. A couple friends have given us funds that we set aside for emergencies. We are eternally grateful for the individuals in Seattle who have given Patrick a home away from home, family away from family, and who have added to their own financial burdens in the spirit of kindness and generosity towards someone they know nothing about.
Alaska Airlines has become an extension of our family. Their unfailing support since that first transplant call has been constant and invaluable. The travel difficulties they have mitigated by stepping in when we needed them are too numerous to count. Our appreciation of our hometown airline knows no bounds.
And a certain nephew has arranged a Go Fund Me without our knowledge, and graciously offered to use it to pay for our shop rent for the next few months. Not having that bill on our plate has taken a burden off our minds, and has highlighted the areas of our life where we are now feeling the pinch of Patrick's absence.
With that in mind, for the foreseeable future we have chosen not to turn down offers of aid. We are breaking a family rule and are not taking this decision lightly. (And it goes without saying that we will find opportunities, as we like to do anyway, to pay these kindnesses forward in our near, more stable future).
Patrick is maintaining his diet of mostly vegetables while in Seattle and has found a Safeway several blocks away, within walking distance. He still likes shopping at Fred Meyer and has his prescriptions filled in Seattle at Costco. Gift cards for these three stores, as well as cards and care packages, can be sent to Patrick's post office box at this address:
Patrick Holland
PO box 12052
Seattle, WA 98102
Locally, if anyone would like to gift the kids and I with cards to Fred Meyer and Costco, where we purchase 99% of our groceries and 100% of our gas, we can meet or they can be mailed to our shop address:
Haley Holland
535 2nd Avenue Suite #103
Fairbanks, AK 99701
To those of you who have already donated to the Go Fund Me, and to the Cyberlynx fundraiser arranged by Jami Martinson (I saw that, Jami!!), thank you. I can't say it enough - that the generosity and care displayed by our families, friends, and those of you who caught wind of our story by some other means, has blown us away.
The end goal of course is a new heart for Patrick, and a new lease on life so he can go on spreading his infectious good humor and positivity for decades to come. To those of you physically, verbally, financially, emotionally, and spiritually holding our hands, thank you. Thank you from our entire family.