My Second Heart Journey

I Woke Up This Morning

I woke up this morning.

For most people, that isn’t news. They wake up, groan, slap the alarm clock, and immediately start complaining about the day before their feet even hit the floor.

Not me.

I opened my eyes and thought, “Well, look at that. I’m still here.”

Then I lay still for a moment and listened.

Yep. The borrowed ticker was still working.

That’s one thing about transplant recipients. Waking up feels a little different for us. We don’t always take it for granted. We know there was a time when tomorrow morning wasn’t guaranteed. Of course, tomorrow morning isn’t guaranteed for anyone, but most people don’t have a long scar down their chest reminding them of that before breakfast.

Before my transplant, waking up often meant checking how I felt. Was I short of breath? Was my heart behaving? Did I have enough energy to make it through the day?

Now I wake up and check the new equipment.

No warning lights. No strange noises. No “check engine” message flashing across my forehead.

Good enough for me.

I sometimes wonder what my donor heart thinks about its new surroundings. It spent 31 years inside someone else, and now it wakes up in a 73-year-old man who goes to bed at nine, gets up before sunrise, drinks tea with milk, feeds deer in the backyard, writes books, and argues with the television.

That heart must be terribly confused.

It probably expected motorcycles, loud music, and late nights. Instead, it got pill alarms at seven, sensible meals, and a Chihuahua named Honey who believes every medication reminder means she deserves a treat.

Quite a career change for both of us.

Most mornings, I wake up between four and five. Some people would call that too early. I call it bonus time. The house is quiet, the world hasn’t started making noise yet, and I can sit with my tea and appreciate the simple fact that I’m awake.

I’m not saying I leap out of bed singing.

At 73, leaping is no longer part of the morning routine. I get up carefully, give everything a moment to report for duty, and wait for my knees to finish whatever meeting they’re having.

Still, I’m not grumpy that I woke up. How could I be?

I spent 67 days in the ICU waiting for the chance to wake up with a healthy heart. I survived a ten-hour transplant operation and woke up surrounded by tubes, machines, and enough IV pumps to open my own medical supply store.

Compared with that, waking up in my own bed is five-star living.

Transplant recipients understand that every morning is a quiet little victory. Nobody throws confetti. There’s no marching band outside the bedroom. The news doesn’t send a reporter to cover it.

“Breaking news: Fred has opened both eyes and appears to be heading toward the kitchen.”

But it’s still worth celebrating.

I woke up.

My heart is beating.

My lungs are working.

My feet can carry me to the kitchen, even if they need a minute to remember the route.

And somewhere along the way, I’ll take a handful of pills large enough to qualify as breakfast. Those pills are part of the deal. The heart may be borrowed, but the pharmacy bill is definitely mine.

There will be blood tests, appointments, side effects, and moments when I wonder whether every little ache means something serious. That comes with transplant life. We don’t get to forget what happened to us.

But we also don’t have to let it steal the joy of what’s happening now.

So when I wake up tomorrow morning, I’ll probably do the same thing. I’ll open my eyes, listen for the borrowed ticker, and say a quiet thank-you.

Then I’ll get out of bed, make my tea, take my medicine, let Honey outside, and start another day I wasn’t always sure I would have.

A lot of people wake up grumpy.

Transplant people wake up grateful.

Well, grateful until we step on the bathroom scale.

Then all bets are off.

Frederick M. Hueston author of MY Heart Journey book series(7/21/26)