CHAPTER 1
Great Partners
Facing the challenge of a possible lung transplant will immediately grab your attention, as breathing is essential to life itself. There is an incredible emptiness and fear when you cannot get air and you gasp for the next breath.
Perhaps someone can deal with this problem alone, but it would be like trying to play golf or tennis alone in a partners or doubles event, never having an extra set of eyes to help find the ball. Paddling a canoe in dangerous waters, or living in the wilderness with no help for survival are other examples; it would help to have a partner to help gather wood, secure food, or just be there for companionship.
There have been many great partners in my life, other than medical ones who came along when they were needed most. The obvious ones during my time of need after my transplant surgery would be my wife, Donna, and my family members. A parent could be a great partner as well. When that partner is a parent and is suddenly lost, as was the case of my donor, the partner for her children and husband is suddenly gone. That person ends up being essential, however, for the person needing a lung or other organ to survive.
Writing this chapter and much of this book, I am at the water's edge of a great western Pennsylvania waterway, French Creek.
The pictures throughout the book, highlighting some of the visualizations, are an attempt to describe the scene better. French Creek is one of the most biologically pure streams in North America, supposedly due to the unique aquatic life present in this river. It flows south from western New York State through the towns of Meadville and Franklin, Pennsylvania. In Franklin, the waters from French Creek flow into the Allegheny River toward Pittsburgh. The Allegheny River is much larger than French Creek; French Creek is normally as wide as a four-lane highway and several feet deep, except for the deep fishing holes along the way.
This chapter is written from the banks of French Creek in a rustic cabin near the little town of Utica, Pennsylvania. Besides the biological uniqueness of this waterway, it has great recreational options for canoeists and kayakers. Canoeing is how I got to learn more about French Creek, through a great partner by the name of Don King.
Don worked for forty years in the same company I did, but he was a generation older. His unique background was that he worked in virtually every department of our company, Harbison Walker Refractories. Refractories are high temperature resistant materials, used to contain hostile environments in industry, like molten metals or intense chemical attack—both of which would destroy a steel shell of a furnace intended to contain those environments. Refractories are the barrier, or—in keeping with the theme of this book—the partner needed to keep the heat away from the people operating the industrial furnaces.
Don was quite the authority not only on refractory materials, but also on how to get things done in any part of the company. So, for a less experienced person, he was a great ally.
He went to Allegheny College, on the banks of French Creek in Meadville, PA, as a premed student before serving in the US military in World War II. His college training made him the perfect candidate for being a medic. He served in the European theater, specifically as a medic in the Battle of the Bulge. Don confided in me that the battle provided enough doctoring to last him a lifetime, and instead of going on to med school as his father had, he started his career with Harbison Walker when he returned from the military. With his military medical experience, he would have been fascinated with the technology of organ transplants.
Don had a fifteen-foot, Grumman aluminum canoe that he used regularly on French Creek and other waterways. His son and daughter often accompanied him, but as the years went by, he would often go by himself, paddling his canoe and camping alongside the river.
While enjoying an adult beverage one night after work, Don invited me to join him for an overnight trip on French Creek from the Saegertown access way, about ten miles north of Meadville. Don was about double my thirtysomething age at the time, but he had a zest for life, the outdoors, and nature, and he was a natural tutor and mentor for many.
At that time in his career at Harbis on Walker, he was also the advertising manager. I worked closely with him on many publications, technical meetings, and presentations. Don was a great writer with great communication skills; he even taught classes at a local community college in Pittsburgh.
His demeanor was inquisitive; he was always asking questions about how things work, or why do you have that opinion—ever mindful of broadening his knowledge rather than challenging your position. I quickly began to look forward to our canoeing adventures and enlisted other Harbison Walker employees, both young and old, to join us. We often would have two or three canoes for our trips and spend two nights on the river camping in our unorganized "Outward Bound" type program.
Normally, I took responsibility for food and beverages, perhaps because of my sales and marketing background. It more likely resulted from the first overnight trip I made with Don. We ended up sharing a small can of Vienna sausages and one six-pack of beer. Since that trip, Don agreed—perhaps cunningly—to relinquish that duty.
Our relationship grew. After he retired, his wife died suddenly; he sold his house and moved into the apartment in the lower level of our house, south of Pittsburgh. He lived there a couple of years and became part of our family before he moved north to be closer to the water he loved.
When you are in a canoe, you need a good partner. The person in the front helps supply the power, but the person in the back adds additional power and —most importantly—steers. Don almost always sat in the back of a canoe. As he was now into his early seventies, it became more important for my younger eyes to "read" the current and avoid the rocks and submerged objects that Don affectionately called widow makers.
There certainly are dangers in the streams and rivers, and many a widow has been made as a result of carelessness or bad luck. One time, on another stream that flows into the Allegheny near Warren, PA we both came close to meeting our fate on a stream called the Brokenstraw. One Saturday afternoon in the spring, we started near Corry, paddled awhile, and then camped near a small island in a steady rain.
At daybreak, that small island was totally submerged and we opted to ride the raging river down to the Allegheny. We made it, but not before dodging many widow makers. More than once, I questioned my judgment, as Donna was pregnant with our son Brad at the time. This was in May of 1982 and Brad was...
