The Wait: Love, Fear, and Happiness on the Heart Transplant List (a review)

The Wait: Love, Fear, and Happiness on the Heart Transplant List by Jennifer Bonner

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I never watched the movie Love Story, the romantic tragedy based on the Erich Segal novel. It was released on December 16, 1970, two days after my mother succumbed to breast cancer and I saw no need to pursue entertainment, or enlightenment, from reminders of my own experience with life’s unfairness. This aversion, packed away with my avoidance of slasher movies and Mexican restaurants, has served me well for nearly 50 years.

Therefore, it was with some trepidation that I picked up The Wait (Love, Fear and Happiness on the Heart Transplant List), Jennifer Bonner’s and Susan Cushman’s brilliant narrative of the life and times of Jen as a young adult, thriving in her own way with a congenital heart defect. The Wait draws extensively from Jen’s daily diary, revealing the psyche of a vivacious (in its intended sense), witty, self-aware, compassionate, artistic and realistic college co-ed. My years at Carleton College, the setting for much of the book, and my deep and abiding respect for Jen’s parents, mandated investing in Jen’s story.

I will take the dividends to my grave.

Cushman, a retired physician, offers us remarkably understandable descriptions of the medical challenges faced by Jen and her family. We are guided through some of the breakthroughs in heart surgery and transplantation that make today’s procedures so commonplace and, as in 1988, make the shortage of donors a major impediment faced by the practice. Cushman also provides sufficient, but not overbearing, narrative to help us put Jen’s diary in context, allowing us to focus on the wisdom offered by a remarkable young woman.

Jen Bonner does not deny the seriousness of her health challenges. But neither does she allow herself to be subsumed by them. Her diary reflects what I am told are normal yearnings of maturing young women, with a twist: Someday I’m going to graduate. Someday I’ll get a job. Someday, I’ll get married. Someday, I’ll get a heart transplant.

An accomplished artist, Jen joyfully celebrates the accolades received for her work, yet gratefully accepts criticism from a visiting professor, knowing it will allow her to hone her skills as she dreams of someday supporting herself with her art. Jen’s musings about her love interests, expressions of sexual desire, jealousies and fantasies permeate the diary, underscoring the normalcy she pursues during The Wait and reminding the author and the reader that Jen focused on long-term goals that loomed beyond pre-transplant physical limitations.

Finally, Jen, at 20, understands far better than most of us, despite our additional years of experience, the importance of celebrating the big and the little beauties life has to offer. Her cognizance jumps from the pages of her diary and, whether discussing her art (If I can paint something that will shift someone’s balance toward beauty, I will have contributed to their overall happiness and to what I consider to be the base intent, purpose, and necessity of life.), or what should be important to us all (I am blessed with the beauty in my life. Loving parents, many friends, good food, my own studio–I have my own studio! Life is beautiful. I will enjoy however much I get and whatever form it comes in.), Jen Bonner, with Susan Cushman, makes us rethink our priorities as we move through life in the midst of our own Wait.

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Help with the Laundry

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A month ago, I had two brothers. Now I have one. A week ago, three happy dogs romped on Meadow Breeze Farm. Now there are two, and they don’t seem as happy.

Since January 21, 2018, I have been reminded that the waves of sadness, helplessness, anxiety and depression that come to shore after the death of a loved one become more bearable when surrounded by others willing to reach out with gestures of kindness and support. This return to Prairie Pondering is meant to convey my deepest thanks for those gestures and to encourage the same selflessness on behalf of others in need.

There’s a scene in Robin and the Seven Hoods, a 1964 Rat Pack classic, where Frank Sinatra’s Robbo is asked by Peter Falk’s Guy Gisborne if Robbo wants help taking care of the crooked sheriff who arranged the ambush of Robbo’s mentor, Big Jim. “We do our own laundry,” replied Robbo, declining assistance.

As is the case with much of my training in the Tao of Frank, that scene has stuck with me over the half century since I first heard the words. Handling problems without relying on others and maintaining control is etched into my psyche. To be clear, I have availed myself of the assistance of many a guardian angel, but my inclination is always to go it alone.

What I’ve referred to as my “firstborn syndrome” during conversations outside my comfort zone requires that I be the stoic in the family or circle of friends, taking charge in the event of a crisis or tragedy. Grieving is typically internalized and providing comfort to a fellow despondent sustains me until the shock fades with time.

If I grieve openly, I am losing control. I am losing my ability to rise above the whirlwind of emotions surrounding me and be the stable influence needed to dial back the storm.

The problem, of course, is that doing that much laundry over so many years takes its toll. Repeated internalization of grieving becomes chronic anxiety over the pressure to continue on as the paragon of stability.

Such was the case when I received a phone call from my nephew on the evening of January 21^st, telling me through sobs that my brother Harlan had fallen at home alone and died. The momentary glee at seeing Adam’s name on caller ID instantly transformed to numbness.

I shed no tears. I opened a very expensive bottle of Scotch that I had been saving for the right occasion (never dreaming), drank it neat, went into firstborn mode, and started making calls. Without breaking down, I delivered the horrible, horrible news to my 89 year-old father, my surviving brother, some first cousins and a few others who needed to hear the news from me and not on social media.

When the news did break on social media and in a more traditional obituary, the response was overwhelming and enlightening. I was inundated with condolence messages from extended family, friends, friends of my brother, friends of other family members, acquaintances of varying degrees, down to the most tenuous of relationships, and even persons with unknown connections taking the time to offer words of comfort.

Harlan’s funeral and the gatherings at synagogue in the evenings that followed were similarly therapeutic. Temple of Aaron, which I last attended in October to watch Harlan receive a lifetime award for his volunteerism, was filled as if it was the High Holidays. The family was sequestered beforehand, so I was unable to interact with attendees, but a subsequent review of the guest book made me realize how many people attended just to show me their support. These attendees were friends and colleagues who had never met Harlan. Yet, they left the warmth of their home or office on a bitterly cold day to drive to St. Paul to spend a couple of hours making their presence known. For my benefit. To help me heal. To help with my laundry.

This week, I had to call the farm vet to come to the house to put our 14 year-old Basset/Shepard CJ to sleep. CJ's recurring violent seizures, despite being on strong medication, were clearly terrorizing him and were becoming more frequent. With Deb out of town and me at the office, I could not stand the thought of our boy going through another seizure alone and I made a heart wrenching decision to allow him to find peace. There is a big hole at the farm without CJ’s presence. He’d been here for all but 11 months of our 14 years in the country.

I posted about the loss on Facebook and, again, was deluged with words of support and understanding in response. In fact, the 212 reactions and nearly as many comments may be the most in response to anything I have ever posted on social media. What I had intended as a tribute to one of my best friends became the vehicle for replacing my dejection with loving support. There are constant, depressing, reminders of CJ’s absence from Meadow Breeze. I have taken to mitigating the impact of the reminders by returning to the Facebook comments and taking comfort from both their words and the mere fact that the authors cared enough about my emotional well-being to announce their concern.

We all die. We all experience the death of others. The fact that so many individuals would take time from their regular routine to reach out to me and my family to contribute to the healing process is as reaffirming a testament to the humanity of our community as I have thought possible in recent years.

Communicating about death need not be difficult. I am not unique in my reaction to the kindness conveyed by as little as the words “sorry for your loss”. Even if your relationship to the mourner is no closer than the fact that you are aware of the loss, let them know that their grief is not being suffered in isolation. Social media postings, cards, phone calls, emails and personal visits each provide solace to the recipient and help them adjust to their new reality with the strength inherent in knowing that they are not alone in the task.

I was taught decades ago that consoling the bereaved is one of the greatest mitzvot (good deeds) God commands us to perform. As one recently consoled, I am reminded of the wisdom of the commandment. Having been elevated from the depths of despair by so many of you, I am determined to be better at contributing to the uplifting of the spirit of others suffering losses of their own.