New Heart, New Life

By Chriseline Beaubrun

Chriseline Beaubrun was fifty-seven years old when she was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. A widowed mother of two, Chris has just completed her master's degree in nursing, and she felt that she had the skills to deal with life's challenges. But her biggest challenge hit her like a blow to the stomach when her cardiologist delivered the official diagnosis. Congestive heart failure? How could that be? As a nurse, Chris had worked hard all her adult life and had taken care of her body. But there was no denying the cold, hard medical facts. As Chris's symptoms worsened despite medications and a defibrillator implanted in her chest, as she reached the point at which she was unable to take a single shallow breath without intense pain, her options for long-term survival were pared down to one: a heart transplant. This was her last, best chance, and because she was determined to survive, she agreed to interview for the position of organ recipient. She got the job and was added to the transplant list, and now Chris tells her story of the many ups and downs facing heart transplant patients-the anxiety of waiting for a heart that might never come, months of hospitalization as her condition worsened, and finally the call that a heart was on the way and the surgery itself. Afterward came the satisfaction of taking her first deep breath in more than a year and leaving the hospital to live her brand new life. Throughout the long process of recovery, Chris experienced both successes and setbacks. But her new heart remained strong, as did the support of her family, friends, and colleagues. Chris hopes that her book will inform and inspire organ transplant recipients and their families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640797185

Book preview

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New Heart, New Life

Chriseline Beaubrun

ISBN 978-1-64079-717-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64079-718-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Chriseline Beaubrun

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

I’m so grateful to all of those who supported me on this journey, and I would like to extend my thanks:

To Dr. Schanzer, my cardiologist, who possessed the strength and wisdom to put me on the transplant list despite my resistance. To Dr. Mellilo, my pulmonologist, whose wise words persuaded me to go ahead with the defibrillator that kept my old heart going until a permanent solution could be found. To Dr. Abrams and the transplant team for their collaborative effort in saving my life, and especially to cardiologist Dr. Willis, who was unfailingly sensitive and kind through the entire process. To Joanne, the transplant coordinator, who was always on top of everything and moved me to the top of the list when my health deteriorated. To the clinic’s nurse practitioner who conducted my post-transplant check-ins. To Peguy, who set all my appointments for post-transplant testing. To all the nurses in the ICU, surgical ICU, the transplant unit, and all the PCTs who helped me when I needed it most. To the social worker who helped me make financial arrangements and who approved my medications and help at home. To the physical therapists for their unending patience and persistence in helping me reach my goals.

To my coworkers, Linda, Debbi, Karen, Debbie, Marive, Ivy, Cathy, Sharon, Kim, and Maria, for seeing my struggle and speaking up, and for always being there with a helping hand when I came back to work. To Annie, who has always made me feel so comfortable, as if I could approach her with anything. To Lenore, my coworker and dear friend, who was with me every step of the way, calling me every day and bringing food to the house for two weeks following my return home. To my colleague Catherine, who took my situation to heart and who encouraged me to go through with the transplant for her father, who never got the chance. To Bonnie, who encouraged me to write down my story. And to all of those who sent cards, food, and money, all of which helped so much in getting me back on my feet again.

To my dear family, for their unceasing love and spiritual guidance.

To my son, Gerard, who took my illness so hard yet stood by me just the same.

And to my daughter, May, who remained at my bedside through the worst of it.

Finally, thank you to God, who made this all possible.

Introduction

October 2007

My mind raced as I gazed around the crowded waiting room.

Like many of the other patients here to see the cardiologist, the man sitting across from me was struggling to get a lungful of air, his chest barely rising before caving right back in again with each ragged breath he took. I gave him a sympathetic smile and glanced at my watch. Only five minutes had passed since I’d checked in, and judging by the number of ailing people around me, I was going to be waiting a good while longer.

I turned my attention to the television at the far end of the room and tried to focus on CNN—anything to keep my worries from consuming me. But it was no use. I couldn’t absorb a thing the newscaster was saying.

A moment later, the sliding glass doors of the medical office shushed open, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair rolled through, pushed by a man of fifty or so—her son, I presumed. The man deposited his mother beside a table topped with People magazines and pamphlets on heart health and stepped away to check in at the reception desk.

The woman fiddled with the clear plastic tubing under her nose that connected to an oxygen tank hanging from the back of her seat. As her tired eyes began to roam the room, I sighed and leaned back. Try as I might to distance myself and my situation from those of the people around me, I knew the effort was in vain.

Had I not gotten winded just on the short walk up the ramp to the office?

The minutes ticked by slowly—twenty, thirty, forty—and in that time, more and more patients arrived and checked in, most of them displaying obvious signs of cardiopulmonary distress to one degree or another. Having been a nurse for nearly thirty years, I knew all too well the symptoms of heart disease. But I suppose like most people, I never thought it would happen to me. I wrung my hands and looked down, trying to block out the notion that I could one day be that frail woman in the wheelchair.

Chris?

My head shot up.

The nurse gave me a smile. You can come on back now.

I rose from my seat, eager to leave that stuffy room full of sick people. Maybe I wasn’t like them after all. Maybe there was another explanation for my symptoms.

Maybe…

Back in the exam room, the nurse took my blood pressure, listened to my heart, and ran an electrocardiogram (EKG). The doctor will be with you shortly, she said before stepping out.

Ten long minutes later, Dr. Schanzer knocked once and stepped into the room.

I noted the smile on his face, and my mood brightened. I thought, If he’s smiling, the news can’t be that bad. I wasn’t naive. I knew there was something wrong with me, but in that moment I allowed myself to believe that just maybe I’d be handed a lesser sentence.

Maybe, just maybe…

Dr. Schanzer sat down, opened my file, and got right to the point. Chris, I’m afraid the results of the tests we did last week confirm that you’re in congestive heart failure.

Life seemed to stop. I sat frozen, unable to speak for several moments.

How could this be? Up until a few months ago, I’d been in a good state of health, except for asthma, which I’d had since I was two. Widowed seven years prior, I was enjoying the pleasure of watching my two grown children, Gerard and May, thrive in their adult lives. I had also recently completed my master’s degree in nursing while working full time at a community hospital in my hometown of Edison, New Jersey. At fifty-seven years young, I was excited to embark on a teaching career.

Simply put, life was good.

That is, until it wasn’t.

Most people in this life, at one time or another, take certain things for granted, and in that regard I was no different than most people. Even as a lifelong sufferer of asthma, I had come to take breathing for granted. And why not? Most of the time I wasn’t bothered by my asthma, and even when I was, I’d always had medication to fall back on.

But all that changed in the summer of 2007 when the simple act of taking a breath became difficult and, shortly thereafter, cause for concern.

Chapter 1

Early Life and Education

I was born Chriseline St. Louis in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, on November 13, 1950. When I was three years old, my father, a minister, moved our family to Petit-Goâve, a small town forty miles southwest of the capital, where my mother managed a small store in the front of our house during the day, while my older sister, Ithalise Chardonnette—or Cocotte as my parents had nicknamed her—and I attended school.

I later returned to Port-au-Prince to continue my schooling and at age nineteen traveled to Montreal, Canada, in hope of pursuing a degree. The idea was that because I had studied and spoke French, I could transition relatively easily to life in the French-Canadian province, where I would have access to opportunities for higher education. My parents arranged the trip through what they presumed to be a reputable agency that promised to provide proper housing and help me obtain a visa so that I could attend school and work.

Unfortunately, the program wasn’t as well organized as the agency had led my parents to believe.

When my traveling partner, Myrta, and I stepped off the plane in Canada in September 1970, we were greeted by a middle-aged white woman who called herself Mrs. J.

Bienvenue, the woman said before promptly asking us for the agreed-upon fee of $500.

Myrta and I dutifully handed over the money, which Mrs. J slipped into her purse before herding us toward her car.

I stared out the backseat window during the forty-minute drive to Ville Saint Laurent. It was around seven in the evening, and I remember being fascinated by the streetlights and unfamiliar landscape, which was, needless to say, an entirely different—not to mention, brighter—world than the one I’d been brought up in.

The car finally came to a stop in front of what looked like a large hall.

Here we are, girls, Mrs. J announced. Let’s get your bags.

Myrta and I exchanged nervous glances. We’d been told by our parents that we’d be living in a house, and this place didn’t resemble any kind of house we had ever seen. Once inside, we saw that the hall was actually a dark and drafty old warehouse. My gaze drifted over the six twin-sized folding beds lined up along one of the walls in the main room. In the center of the room stood a plain wooden table with a few folding chairs scattered around it.

This is Antonine, Mrs. J said, gesturing to an older girl with short dark hair, and whose skinny frame stood tall among the other residents. She’ll show you around. Mrs. J then turned abruptly and strode back out the door. I wouldn’t see her again until a week later when she stopped in to restock the refrigerator.

Antonine stepped toward Myrta and me. You can take those, she said, pointing a bony finger at the two beds closest to the warehouse entrance. Now this way.

Her demeanor was cool and detached and, in my mind, bordering on hostile. Nonetheless, Myrta and I set down our suitcases and followed her.

We all share the chores around here, Antonine told us as we passed by the bathroom. No exceptions. When we reached the kitchen, she stopped and turned to us, folding her scrawny arms across her chest. And everyone takes turns cooking.

At this, my stomach knotted. In Haiti, children from poor families were often sent to the homes of the middle class to live and work. This eased the burden of their poverty-stricken parents, who gained a bit of comfort knowing their child would be provided for. My mother had a big heart, so at any given time, several of these children resided in our home. My parents would feed them, clothe them, and even send them to school in return for performing many of the usual household chores, such as cleaning and cooking.

As a result, I had never learned to cook myself.

I quickly proposed a deal—to which the others thankfully agreed—that in lieu of cooking, I would wash all the dishes for every meal.

~~~

Contrary to the promise made by the agency, no one stepped in to assist me in securing a visa, so schooling and employment remained out of reach for a time, my life reduced to washing dishes all day in a damp and dreary warehouse. I tried to get along with the other girls, but in truth, I never got to know them very well. The atmosphere in the house was decidedly tense, and I can only assume this was due to the differences in our backgrounds, but I can’t say for sure.

Certainly I was more naive than the others, having been brought up in a strict Christian home—the daughter of a minister, no less. When the other girls invited me to go out on Christmas that first year, I flat out declined, convinced my father would find out despite the vast distance between us.

It was a lonely time those first months in Montreal, living in a new culture among strangers and being separated from my parents for the first time with only the rare opportunity to get in touch with them. In 1970, only the wealthiest Haitians had telephones in their homes. Most had to arrange for phone calls ahead of time and receive them at a central station, the closest of which was in Port-au-Prince—a three-hour trip from my parents’ home.

I sent letters home when I could—some taking up to three months in transit, I later came to find out—but I was careful never to complain or reveal the true nature of the circumstances, for if my parents had known, they would have been devastated.

It seemed the only thing to do was to make the best of the situation.

~~~

One Sunday afternoon about a month after I had arrived, my luck began to change when a well-dressed woman named