At the young age of 28, he was overly fatigued and had other symptoms that indicated something wasn’t quite right. He was soon diagnosed with end stage liver disease. He had non-A/non-B hepatitis, now called Hepatitis C. His condition deteriorated rapidly and in a very short period of time, he was in need of a liver transplant. After just turning 29 years of age in February, he received his first liver transplant on March 20, 1987, at Presbyterian University Hospital in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He was deathly ill at the time of his first transplant; it was indeed a miracle that he lived. He was fortunate, as well, even to have received a liver. Many people die annually awaiting donor organs. After his transplant, Art was an ideal patient, with a positive outlook on life. He took his medicine as prescribed, and his attitude was one of thankfulness and hope for the future. He eventually recovered to the point of being able to participate in activities he enjoyed, such as golf and fishing.

However, his quality time was cut short when he showed signs of rejection, which ultimately led to his having a second transplant operation on January 1989, less than two years after the first one. He never fully recovered from this second transplant, and on June 14, 1989, approximately five months later, Art received his third liver transplant. He then developed severe pancreatitis and had to endure excruciating pain, suffering more than any one person ought to have to suffer through several lifetimes. He had numerous emergency surgeries during his 90-day stay in intensive care. One day at a time was the only way he could look at things. But... when each day became exceedingly difficult and more miserable than the preceding day, he became despondent, weary and depressed. This was a grief laden time for everyone involved--the feelings of utter helplessness, sadness and pity were overpowering. Art miraculously survived his nightmare, and by spring of 1990, was beginning to improve. He improved so much that he chose to have elective eye surgery for his cataracts (caused from the vast amounts of steroids he had to take.) He had this surgery in September 1990, and recovered fairly quickly. By the end of September, he felt better than he’d felt in years. He was able to drive and do some of the things that brought him joy and pleasure.

On October 1, 1990, Art died at his home in Lexington, Kentucky, at the age of 32. Due to his recent gains of improvement, his death was unexpected. He left a wife and a six-year-old daughter, parents and stepparents, grandparents, and me. Although we anticipated it, we weren’t ready or prepared for his death. One might say that the anticipatory grief we experienced throughout his long illness lessened the actual impact of his death...but it didn’t. Nothing could have prepared my family and me for the shock of his untimely death. He had a long, four-year struggle in which he endured endless pain and suffering. I never heard him complain--not even once. He had a strong will to live, a very determined spirit, and an undying faith in God. He was truly an inspiration to us all.

His death affected my entire family. I watched my parents grow older right before my eyes as they lived daily with a constant, never-ending worry and a gut wrenching pain of helplessness and heartache. When the news of his death came, I felt stunned, numb like a robot. There was a bottomless pit in my stomach, an emptiness that’s hard to describe. I cried a lot and sighed a lot. There was a tightness in my throat when I did speak. My heart felt frozen, but as my heart thawed out and reality slowly crept in, disbelief and dismay were left in its place. After disbelief subsided, I tried to rationalize that there was a relief component to Art’s death. His tragedy had come to an end. I tried to find comfort and solace in the fact that he wouldn’t suffer anymore. In my mind, I tried to dwell on the fact that he would never experience any more pain ever again. Later in the bereavement process, I felt angry and still do at times, because it is so unfair that he’s not here with us to enjoy life and watch his daughter grow up. It’s just so unfair that his life was cut so short. The reality that I won’t get to see him, hug him, and have him in my life is a very hard burden to bear.

I ask myself, “What purpose did his death serve?” and “What lessons are to be learned from such a tragedy?” Is the lesson possibly that we shouldn’t take each other or our health for granted? Without our health, nothing else really matters. Life is too short and too precious to waste. We need to appreciate each day and make the most of it.

Somehow, life goes on with or without us. I am thankful that my brother knew how very much I loved him. I have many wonderful, loving memories of happier times, we spent together prior to Art’s illness that I will treasure and cherish forever. He was a wonderful father, husband, son, brother, friend and Christian. He was well loved, well respected, and admired by all who knew him. Our lives are richer and more blessed because of him. I miss him terribly...and I always will.