Switcheroo

Recovery, relapse, and healing after a heart-lung transplant from the patient’s perspective.

Hand touching a purple wall decorated with white dove and heart designs.
Laptop displaying video call on white table in modern lounge setting.
Interior view of a car dashboard through windshield during daytime driving.
Text engraved on brick wall with shadows cast.
Close up of photographer taking self portrait showing surgical scars.
A photographer with scars takes a self portrait with a DSLR camera in a mirror.
Hands wearing blue medical gloves examine medication in a container.
Medical record or prescription list showing input and output measurements on white paper.
Hospital room interior with clock, whiteboard and medical supplies.
Art supplies and watercolors with a bright red paint cup on wooden surface.
A creative workspace setup with art supplies and medical equipment in a healthcare setting.
Dimly lit refrigerator shelves stocked with various containers and supplies.
Group celebrates with a gold number 3 balloon on a sunny hiking trail.
Colorful pill organizers arranged in a rainbow pattern on a dark wooden surface.
Person in beige sweatshirt looking at phone while holding prescription bottle.

A heart-lung transplant was the worst-case scenario for our family until it became a choice between life and death. 


In May 2016 I was in the ICU hemorrhaging blood from my lungs. After living with Pulmonary Hypertension for 16 years, and losing countless friends to the disease, I knew what was at stake. My family and I chose transplantation, and with miraculously perfect timing another family chose to save my life through organ donation.


The transplant remodeled my body physically and transformed every part of my day-to-day life. I’ve taken photos throughout, intentionally documenting highs and lows. 


There is beauty in the complex layers of fear, sadness, joy, and optimism inherent in organ donation and transplantation.


When I look back on the photos I took, I remember and process more of what has been blurred by time, grief, and psychoactive, memory-dimming medications. The only form of control I had in some moments was to photograph them. I took the photos to acknowledge the juxtaposition in my life and find some humor in hardship.


My partner light-heartedly refers to my surgery as “the ol’ switcheroo,” fully aware of what I endured and the endless medication post-transplant life promises. Ignoring discouraging survival statistics and adopting a hopeful attitude was essential to integrating chronic immunosuppression into the full and active life I lead today.