Allan Gengler Website Photography Liver Transplant and Hemophilia

I wrote this about a year after my transplant, May 13, 1999. I'm leaving it as I Wrote it then.

I was in intensive care at Tampa General Hospital. I had just been through what is called a Tips procedure to reroute blood from my little tiny (almost gone) liver.

I'm not sure what time it was but the nurse told me the doctors believe they have a liver for me.

I knew what that meant. Someone, somewhere had died and through the grace of organ donation, skilled surgeons (like Dr. Hector Ramos) and God, part of that person will continue to live in me.

Needless to say I was scared, laying there in the second-floor intensive care unit of Tampa General Hospital. But my attitude was still "wait and see."

I learned later that my wife, who had just gotten into bed at our Ruskin, FL home, got a call at 1:30 in the morning from Shawny of Lifelink of Florida. The news was that I would be transplanted that day.

I didn't sleep much after that.

In the morning Dr. Ramos came into my room and said they had a liver for me. Tightness formed inside and swelled up like a balloon until tears dropped from my eyes. I was scared and happy too.

I was also ignorant. I didn't realize how close to death I was at that moment. My liver was almost gone and on the national transplant list, I was at the point of "get a liver, or die."

Just yesterday, or was it a year, or two, I felt normal, despite all the blood tests telling me otherwise. I was working more than 40 hours a week as a systems manager in The Tampa Tribune's Information Services Department. Yes I was a computer geek.

Judy and I would take our sailboat out on the weekends, either overnight or just to watch the dolphins play tag with our boat.

Life was wonderful, but it became uncomfortable as time passed. Denying my sickness, I had prayed for Godlike magic, like a light from the sky, to cure me.

But the miracle cure didn't come.

But still I didn't admit that I would be cut open and repaired, like a car mechanic raises the hood and changes out a water-pump. I didn't acknowledge that truth until just before I was wheeled into surgery and I saw Dr. Ramos leaning against the nurses station, waiting for me.

It had been a morning of yes and nos. First I had a liver then they weren't sure. Then there was nobody to harvest the liver and a Lifelink surgeon drove to Lakeland where the liver was.

Where the liver was, that seems unfeeling. But the fact is this. A man, 28 years old, lay dead in a Lakeland hospital. Whether through foresight or the generosity of his family, one of his organs could save my life.

I don't know how he died, or what his name was. I'm sure death wasn't in his plans for that day – it'd had never been in my plans either. But I was close and yet I was planning to live. But as in all things, my plan and The Plan may have nothing in common.

At any rate the doors to the operating room pushed open and I slid off onto the table. It had arm extenders and if you looked at it from above it was as if I was being crucified.

The last thing I remembered was Dr. Tso (always looking very serious) looking down at me as he prepared me for surgery. Someone somewhere said "You'll start to relax now," And that was it.

You don't really wake up from surgery. You sort of come to, like a drunk would after a weekend binge. I'm not sure whose voice I heard first, a nurse maybe, or Judy. They told me later, I'd been awake before that point I started to remember things. But you can't prove that by me. I was in the cardiac intensive care unit at Tampa General Hospital. That's where all Lifelink liver transplants go after surgery.

My time there was not comfortable. I weighed about 150 pounds and of course I was weak and wacko.

It's the drugs. I saw worms crawling across the ceiling. I made up dirty jokes. And I couldn't go to sleep for three days. I had more bags of stuff hanging from the IV tree than I thought possible.

I was also a major pest for the nurses. One day I'll have to go back and apologize to Nicole, a good nurse, who I'm sure got mad at me more than once.

You see I couldn't have anything by mouth until my digestive system woke up (when they put you to sleep, they really put you to sleep). I wanted ice chips because my mouth was dry and they wouldn't give me any. It was for my own good, but I didn't like it and made it known.

But at the end of fourth day I was transferred to the eighth floor and my life improved a bunch. Don't get me wrong – I was immensely grateful to be alive -- very, very, very grateful. But in all that aliveness I'm a wimp when it comes to being uncomfortable.

It was here that I relearned to walk, eat, drink and use the restroom (this is a very important thing).

For five more days I got to know the nurses and doctors and hospital food (yuck!). And then I came home. Now here's where I am now. This is where the real recovery process begins.

On a daily basis, I'm thankful for butterflies and slow drivers, and dolphin and sharks and the sunshine and night.

I wish I could give the gift or knowing life to everyone. It seems that nearly dying is a pretty radical way of getting it.

For too long I complained about things. I thought of doing good things without actually doing them. I was a coward. I thought badly of other people, who were doing their best also.

I feel remorse for the man, who died, so I may live. Bless his soul and his family, and all the other people who had the foresight to give as their final gift, the gift of life.