** The following is a post from our sister site Data Driven Athlete**
When I was 17, a doctor told me I had a rare liver disease and would eventually need a transplant. How does a high school kid make sense of organ transplantation? I don’t think I ever did.
I went to college, got married, started my career, and my wife and I had our first child. Life was vibrant and beautiful—but I was also getting sicker.
In 2013, a former student gave me half his liver. Through the marvel of live-donor transplantation, I was back to full strength.
For half my life, I had viewed transplantation as a destination—believing that if I could just get there, I’d finally gain some certainty about my future.
The years after my transplant flew by. I rode my bike a lot, my wife and I welcomed our second child, and the four of us spent time together in beautiful campgrounds along the West Coast.
But that sense of certainty about my future? It never came.
In 2018, I was diagnosed with recurrent liver disease. Eventually, I’d need another transplant.
This time, there would be no scheduled timeline with a live donor. I was placed on a waiting list with hundreds of others in Northern California, all hoping for a liver.
Being “listed” is a dynamic process: the sickest patients receive priority, but since demand for organs far outstrips supply, waiting is often long and grueling.
The Now
It’s February 2025, and I’ve recently returned home from another hospitalization. My son is playing baseball as the evening light flickers through the trees. It’s still a bit cold to be wearing shorts, but I’m doing my part to usher in spring.
I’m sitting in a camping chair, my phone resting prominently in the cup holder. For the past year, I’ve been practicing this dance between presence and distraction, though lately, my phone has been winning.
As my health declines, my odds of receiving a new liver improve. Even so, I’ve learned to temper my expectations whenever my phone rings.
But this call feels different. Adrenaline flows when a San Francisco area code flashes on the screen.
My surgeon’s voice is on the line, calmly telling me to head to the hospital as soon as possible.
My wife and I have worked hard to prepare for this exact moment, but it still feels surreal.
I scan the baseball field, deciding how best to get my son’s attention. He’s behind the backstop, getting ready to hit. I walk toward him and kneel.
“My boy, they just called me. I need to go now.” Emotion overpowers my voice as I try—and fail—to keep the intensity of this moment in check. I don’t want to scare him, but I also don’t want to rush through this goodbye.
Early the next morning, I’m lying on a gurney, waiting as the staff wheels me into the operating room. The environment is white and sterile, but I feel an unexpected warmth.
I’m no closer to understanding the impossibility of organ transplantation, but I’ve let go of my need for certainty. In its place, I feel only gratitude.