Waking up early was a normal thing for my grandfather. I had asked him before why he woke up so early when he could just sleep in, after all he was retired. His response was memorable; he said he wanted his days to be long and meaningful, and the only way for that to be accomplished was to start the day even before the birds did, and end it after the bird’s last song. On this day he woke up earlier than usual; the sun wasn’t scheduled to rise for another hour, but this was the day he would consult with his doctor about his less than impressive EKG he had received the week before. As his muscles ached he slipped slowly into the kaki pants he had worn the day before. With a slight limp in his step he lingered into his closet to grab the black winter coat that hung all by its lonesome by the door. Lately he had been cold, but not the attitude kind of cold. For about three weeks he had slept with two extra comforters on his bed that made my grandma sweat, yet he continued to feel cold. He ran his hands through his wiry grey hair preparing and anticipating the long day to come. As he made his way down the old wooden steps he braced himself as he held on to the railing that followed the contour of the staircase. Relief came over him as his slightly overweight body carried him over the last step. Already out of breath he plopped down in his Lazy Boy and loosened the laces of his Red Head work boots. He applied some downward pressure and his feet, one after the other, slid down into the worn brown leather. His rough calloused hands struggled to tie a knot, but after two failed attempts he finally got the famed bunny ears to form. My grandmother claimed that he looked a little flustered and nervous that day, a sizable understatement. After pouring his coffee he kissed his wife on the forehead, grabbed his car keys off the hook, and stepped out the front door quietly.
The visit to the doctor’s office was a solemn time. My grandfather, Joseph Pascuzzi, was struck with bad news when his doctor told him that he had something wrong with his heart. “Cardiomyopathy refers to diseases of the heart muscle. As it worsens, the heart grows weaker. It's less able to translate blood through the body and maintain a normal electrical rhythm. This can lead to heart failure or an irregular heartbeat,” the doctor explained.
“Give it to me straight Doc. am I going to live or not?” he questioned
“Not without surgery you won’t,” the doctor shot back jokingly.
He then asked the next appropriate question timidly, “What kind of surgery?”
Now more serious the doctor responded, “You need a heart transplant, Joe.”
My grandfather’s face shifted white in an instant. His heart sank into the depths of his stomach, and his hands became cold and clammy. “Give me a minute doctor,” he mumbled.
With that the doctor exited the room leaving Joe alone with his thoughts. Every situation and every outcome flashed through Joe’s head. He thought about the life he made with his wife: his four kids and nine grandkids that he adored so much. As he departed from the doctor’s office he was certain of two things. The first was that he was to undergo a heart transplant that would either save or take his life, and the second was that he would fight to survive until he had no life left.

Earlier that day, a young woman rose out of bed synonymous with the sun outside her apartment window: slowly and quietly. She glanced over at the analog clock that sat on her bedside table, and it read eight; she was late to work. Her fiancé was already up and slouching at the kitchen table enjoying his coffee and skimming the newspaper. “Why didn’t you wake me up?’ ‘You know what time I need to be up! Now I’m late, and it’s all your fault!” she snapped at him.
He answered with a simple facial expression that said to her, “What do you want me to do about it?” This action alone pissed her off. From then on her movements were brisk and aggressive. The cupboard that held her lucky coffee mug closed and echoed like thunder through her small apartment. She continued this rant for the next twenty minutes before she was ready to leave for work. After her morning bowl of chocolate ice cream (she loved chocolate) her final word to her lazy fiancé was the crashing of the thick old oak door against the metal plated doorframe. She made her way to the garage in the back where her baby was at rest. The blacked out Yamaha R1 motorcycle was covered up, but since it was an unusually warm day for February 10th, and she needed to blow some steam off before work she thought to herself, “What the hell; why not?”
She hopped up upon the plush leather seat and was gone in a flash. Every time she twisted back the heated, gummy, rubber-covered throttle, the brand new, barely broken in, 628-pound, 1000cc Yamaha R1 motorcycle leaped forward like a thoroughbred under the whip. Faster and faster she rode; the fumes bled out of the exhaust as quickly as anger bled out of her mind. For the first time in a long time she felt alive and free; nothing could kill this feeling. Up ahead she could see the overpass she crossed everyday. Near the end it banked aggressively to the left, and the far right lane had traffic merging onto the highway. She knew that if she downshifted into second gear toward the bottom it would give her enough power to shoot through the awaiting traffic. Unfortunately the deep thought hindered her from noticing the black ice that made home to the newly paved overpass.
She was racing over the bridge at eighty-five miles per hour when her pale, white, shaky hand squeezed back on the clutch just as her left foot hit the shift lever into second gear. As she released the clutch the RPM’s rose exponentially causing the back tire to kick loose into a tail spin. Her heart pounded faster and faster as the bike wobbled uncontrollably under her. Suddenly, the bike lost all traction and slammed to the pavement in a blur. The impact alone knocked the breath out of her lungs. She could feel the hard blacktop tear through her skin with ease like a cheese grater. The bike was on its side sliding out of control towards oncoming traffic, and she was pinned beneath the black beast. There was nothing she could do, but await the unimaginable pain that was to come.
Upon impact the young woman lost consciousness; it was a blessing from god that she was not awake to experience the horror that took place. The front tire of the motorcycle hit the driver side door of a Dodge Caravan, and she was launched from the ground. If not for the van she would have ended up in the cold wet snow on the edge of the highway, but instead the van stopped her mid-flight; her helmet and body were crushed up against the unforgiving fiberglass. The van came to a screeching stop, and the driver immediately made the 911 call. The young woman’s body was wedged maliciously between the bike and the minivan, so the driver could do nothing but wait for help to arrive.
Four police cars, two ambulances, and one helicopter arrived on scene a tense fifteen minutes later to find the devastating crash. The paramedics immediately went to work on the young lady who miraculously still had a pulse, but she was unconscious. When the medic pulled her ID out of her front jacket pocket it read “heart donor”. From that point forward, even though the medic’s knew the young woman would never awake from the coma she was in, they could still save the life of someone in need. The helicopter lifted from the cold hard earth and the high winds from the propeller scattered the debris left from the horrific crash. The head medic received a call from the transplant specialist of Cleveland Hospital. The man informed the medic that they had a transplant patient waiting for that heart, and to get to the hospital immediately.

As they moved swiftly through the lobby the air reeked of sanitary wipes and public soap. The woman was rushed into emergency surgery where the doctors opened her chest cavity and carefully extracted her heart with equipment that resembled expensive stainless steel gardening tools. The heart was placed on ice, and shortly after the woman died unexpectedly due to extreme trauma to her head and spine. What was remembered about the young woman was not the terrible crash, or the immense amount of pain she had to endure, but the selflessness she had to give a part of herself to save another human beings life that she didn’t even know. To this day her family members are filled with bitterness and resentment toward her death, but they must realize that her life and happiness would live on from that day forward in the body and mind of an appreciative person.
The recipient lay in a bed on the other side of the hospital, so the doctors had no time to waste transporting the special package. There was the heart in a clear sterile container surrounded by bags of ice you would find at a corner party store. The journey across the hospital was strange and lonely for the heart; it felt naked and out of place. The wait for a new home was almost unbearable; the heart grew tired and weak from sustaining life on its own. “Hold that elevator!” a man in turquoise scrubs shouted from behind.
“Make way, coming through, new heart here!” another belted out.
It’s funny that the doctor noted, “New heart here,” because even though another person had already carried it there was still a sense of hope for a new beginning. The room they entered was small, pale white, and clean. It looked as if t had never been used. It looked like there had never been lives lost on the table, or blood shed on the newly polished tile flooring. There were no reminisces of the past, but the doctors had been here before. The stillness in the air and low hum of surgical instruments were all too familiar. An old man laid a top the operating table. He was around seventy years old and had tan olive skin, a scruffy beard, and a large nose; he must have been an Italian. Sure enough the nametag at the end of the table read Joseph Pascuzzi. In all, surrounding the body, there was a surgeon, three assistants, and one anesthesiologist: only the best.
They began by making a large incision from the bottom of the ribs, around, and just past the belly button. Next, they cracked the rib cage to make room to work inside the chest cavity. The removal of the damaged heart was less than ideal. Joe started to bleed uncontrollably when the doctor separated the heart from the left pulmonary artery. The assistants applied pressure where they could, but they needed to get the old heart out and the new one in quickly. It took four hands to get the bleeding to stop, so when the deep red blood took a rest from pulsating up from the arteries, the doctor saw his window.
The old withered heart was placed in a small casket for further examination. The crisp new heart was carefully removed from its quarters and allotted in the warm space below where the patients left ribs once were. It was a perfect fit for now, so with five quick suture lines to bind the large blood vessels entering and leaving the heart, the procedure was just about stitched up. Although Joe would have a scar the size of Texas down his chest for the rest of his life, he would be alive, well, and thankful for the heart that was given to him.
Four hours later Joe awoke feeling different. He knew he had just had surgery and should probably be in pain of some sort, but all he could think about, and all he craved at that moment, was a bowl of chocolate ice cream. Before that day, not only did Joe not like chocolate ice cream, he despised chocolate all together. Who knows, maybe he had a change of heart? From that point forward Joe felt strong, energetic, and ready to take on new challenges. His first challenge was becoming well enough to be released from the hospital. It took him eight days to get back on his feet, and even when he returned home his doctor informed him to stay in bed for another week to allow the heart to settle into its new home.

Today, twelve years later, Joe is still alive and well for the most part. He is living with is wife in West Palm Beach, Florida in a small condo on a golf course. Joe’s heart is working hard to keep him alive each and every day. Some days are good, some days are bad, and some days are just terrible, yet Joe knows that nothing could be worse than leaving this Earth with unfinished business. When Joe looks back on the heart transplant he received in February of 2000 he is thankful for the life, death, and gift the young woman had to offer. The experience taught him to live for today because you never know what is to come of tomorrow.