My White House

Today I drove past the White House for the first time. 

No, not that White House.

The University of Washington Medical Center backs to a little canal of water called the Montlake Cut, which joins Lake Washington to Lake Union. The canal is there so that boaters can travel back and forth— and all the way to Puget Sound, if they feel like navigating the Ballard Locks. This means that summertime patients lucky enough to be in the new Montlake Tower or the older Cascade Tower with a room facing South(ish) get to watch all kinds of watercraft cruise by: jet skis, sailboats, motorboats, you name it. And I was lucky enough to be there at the peak of the glorious Seattle summer to witness it all.

After receiving The Call and the insane afternoon that followed of panicked packing, preparing and traveling to the hospital by land and by sea, my nurse Zhenzhen welcomed us to the room I would occupy for a while in the ICU. She oversaw a pretty spectacular blood draw and did all she could to prep me for the surgery, which would take place in the morning. 

My mood was strange. I mean, there’s no manual for how you’re supposed to act when your heart transplant is taking place on the other side of the night and I was sort of flitting between manic bits of chatter and a contemplative stillness. In addition to boats, my perch also afforded a wonderful view of the homes that line the street on the other side of the canal— E. Shelby Street. And one of those homes captivated me from the moment I first laid eyes on it.

Zhenzhen had quietly left us to ourselves… and there it was. The sun was setting and the house was blazing this gorgeous amber color in the waning light. As we waited for our sushi delivery (the SUSHI PARTY will be addressed in a later blog) we just sat and stared at it.  It was lovely, with decks on both floors and  with steps leading down for access to the trail that follows the top of the canal. We passed a little time and kept some of our anxiety at bay by talking about the White House, the view, the boats… anything except the enormity of what was happening in less than 12 hours.

Eventually darkness fell. Around 11 p.m. my parents arrived from Texas and visited briefly. They were exhausted from a frantic and heroic day of emergency travel and I could see the terror on their faces. It made me feel strange. But the night wore on, The Boy tried to sleep on the futon in my room for a few hours, and the White House was forgotten. As the gloom gathered outside my window and my anxiety became almost unbearable, my focus shifted to the flashing red lights at the peaks of the giant antennas on a distant hilltop. It was so very quiet except for the screaming cyclone in my mind and I watched them blinking, thinking the antenna towers were shaped like Christmas trees and the red lights were just like twinkle lights and wondering if December 2018 would see The Boy celebrating the holidays as a widower.

It was a terrifying night and I was awake for all of it.

It was a terrifying morning and there was only time to hug my parents one last time before The Boy was chasing my bed down the hall as the anesthesiologist pushed me towards either a new beginning or a very real end.

And then it was over. 

The next couple of days were incredibly rough and I was in and out of consciousness— mostly out. When I was finally lucid enough and able to focus my eyes while sitting upright in the recliner, I could see the White House again.

It was the same. My whole world had ended and been born again, but life had continued as usual for everyone else, including the mystery people who inhabited that house. And over the next three weeks I watched it as I suffered setbacks and pushed triumphantly past milestones, as I went through more surgeries and shared laughter and tears with my family and my friends, as I gradually began to take my own life back. 

Morning comes really early for heart transplant patients and usually mine started around 4:00 a.m. with chest X-rays, vital signs, and the first meds of the day. Sometimes I’d manage to go back to sleep before rounds began, but most days not so much. So I knew that the White House people were early risers. The Boy had already found their home on Zillow and based on its value, we figured they were a middle-ish aged couple, both professionals, and they had to get up early to rush off to their jobs so they could afford to live in such a beautiful home so close to the city and right on the water. I imagined they had a fluffy dog who looked a lot like Benji and two small children who spent their days with a nanny. I wondered why I never saw them on their deck with a glass of wine in the evening… and I hoped they were happy. You should enjoy living in a house that special.

I also thought about what their view was like because  of course I knew they were looking at my tower. I wondered if they wondered about who might be looking back at them. There’s not much to do in the hospital, so I had a lot of time to think these things. And even though I never saw them outside and had no idea who they were, I began to believe that we’d likely be friends in real life. I imagined going to their house to celebrate the first 4th of July with my new heart. We’d sit on that deck and grill and drink cool drinks (non-alcoholic for me, of course). We’d watch the boats go by… and I’d look up at that tower and send so much love and peace to the poor souls trapped inside, anxiously awaiting the rest of their lives.

...

It was strange to see my White House today.

I’m so different now. I have a beautiful new heart that is propelling me through this world in a way I never imagined possible. I’m no longer afraid. I don’t morbidly worry that every holiday or experience is my last. Rather, I celebrate each as my first.

The White House is different too. Not only did I see its front for the first time today, but I also saw that it’s not actually white— it’s a very light dove grey with white trim. I saw that the second story of the house is actually shingles and not siding. And I don't know, it seemed somehow both smaller and larger than I remembered it. Kind of like me.

I parked my car across the street from the White House. I took a photo of it. And I cried. It’s so hard to describe what I was feeling but it was the strangest combination of melancholy for the person I was then and joy for the person I am now and gratitude and unbelievable relief that it’s all behind me. I used to think maybe one day I’d climb the steps up to the White House’s porch and introduce myself to its occupants. I’d tell them what their house meant to me during the most difficult and incredible time of my life. But now I feel differently... we’ve both changed so much. 

I looked down at the photograph that I took and that's when I saw it. Yes, there is my beautiful White House. But peaking around from behind it is my tower. As grateful as I am for the heart I received and the incredible care that came with it, I'd be happy if I never saw either view again.

And so after a few moments, I drove away.