David King

A Chance Meeting...(Or was it)?

Lizz King has long harbored a keen sense of intuition. But even she couldn't have predicted that a striking man with intense, dark eyes and tawny skin would appear at the end of her bed one night in 2003 to quietly say, "Wait for me."

It had been merely a vision, but one that she somehow trusted in. And strangely, three days before that dream, an elder from the Pequot/Narragansett community had boldly asked her, "You married to that Mohawk boy?" It was an awkward moment for Lizz, a single woman.

Perhaps it was the promise of that surreal vision that compelled Lizz, who lived in Rhode Island at the time, to sign up for a "Pow Wow" cruise to Mexico, a somewhat compulsive act that surprised even her. As it turns out, it would be her destiny to meet that arrestingly handsome man – the Mohawk man who would become her husband – on that spontaneous cruise.

The dream was a distant memory as Lizz joined her fellow cruise passengers for orientation night – until she saw him. Right down to the hair, eyes and smile, he was the man from her vision. That man, David King, also spotted Lizz, whose native Apache name, "Obewah," means "indescribable beauty"-- a name that David confirms suits her unconditionally.

David was not without a compelling vision of his own. In December 2002, he had a dream that strongly urged him to go to Mexico — to "meet someone." He was soon stunned when friends unexpectedly invited him to join them on a cruise. To Mexico, of course! The cruise where he met "Obewah," his future wife.

Theirs is a story that David and Lizz, both in their 40s, recount often: The chance (or was it?) meeting on board ship. The immediate chemistry. The wine that Lizz spilled amid her nervousness. And the undeniable connection that would define their future.

The wedding took place on Feb. 17, 2005.

David: A 'Blue Baby' Faces a Lifelong Health Challenge

It would also be Lizz' destiny to partner with her new husband in a journey that would greatly test their resilience, faith and ability to overcome overwhelming medical obstacles. David was born in Ontario, Canada, where he was quickly diagnosed as a "blue baby," — an infant suffering from cyanotic heart defects.

He suffered from tricuspid atresia, a condition that weakened him and eventually required surgeries for the congenital defect in which there is no valve between two of the heart's four chambers, restricting blood flow to the lungs.

His young life was marked by numerous setbacks, surgeries and relapses.

David's first treatment, at just 14 months old, required a Glenn shunt, a palliative measure to help improve pulmonary blood flow. By age 11, he needed the Blalock-Taussig shunt, another surgery to again direct blood flow to the lungs. And at age 18, he underwent Fontan surgery at Montreal Children's Hospital. Fontan surgery is a treatment for congenital tricuspid atresia that, when successful, helps with blood flow to the lungs. It is not a permanent fix, but it gave him some relief.

"Here I was, 18 years old, and in a children's hospital," recalls David. That surgery, again to supply blood flow, gave him some needed relief, yet his breathing remained impaired.

Concedes David, "It wasn't until 1978, at age 19, that I realized I could be a normal color."

His health issues were in stark contrast to the philosophy espoused by David's Mohawk culture, a culture that valued tough men who originally were the undaunted tribal hunters. That work then evolved to manual labor, such as the job David held as an iron worker when he was 19. Yet as hard as he worked, he knew something was wrong with him physically. Whenever he expressed that he wasn't feeling well, however, his siblings would retort, "There's nothing wrong with you."

Still, David insists, "In my head, I was a normal kid. I did more than a lot of the other kids."

He went on to hold high profile jobs in graphic design and traveled around the country to teach Mohawk culture. Lizz eventually encouraged him to move to Massachusetts, where David worked as an interpreter at Plimoth Plantation, a living history museum that features a 1600s colonial English village and a Wampanoag home site, while she pursued massage therapy.

In June 2006, David's stamina seemed strong enough to allow him to cut down trees, participate in canoe racing and help build a nushwetu (house). Then things spiraled down dramatically. His color began changing, his legs swelled and he would have to sit out half a day or more.

In July 2006, after being turned down at other medical institutions because of David's complex case, David and Lizz decided to pack up and seek out Mayo Clinic in Arizona.

Lizz: 'A Whirling, One-Woman Advocate for David'

Her indomitable energy is unrelenting, yet is balanced by her passion for calmer pursuits – massage, reflexology, crystal healing. And that perfect balance of persistence and serenity that characterizes Lizz King was dedicated 100 percent to the pursuit of healing David's heart.

It was Lizz, a licensed massage therapist and spiritual healer, who tirelessly worked the phones to seek physicians in Arizona known for their expertise in congenital heart failure. That tenacity led her to Dr. A. Jamil Tajik, Mayo Clinic Cardiovascular Diseases Professor of Medicine and Pediatric Consultant. Liz prefers to describe him as "The God of Cardiology." She also found Dr. Craig Cohen, a Phoenix adult congenital heart specialist. Drs. Cohen and Tajik, as well as others, including Dr. Michael Teodori from Phoenix Children's Hospital, were in the midst of forging a unique collaboration – the newly-established Adult Congenital Heart Disease Program, housed at Mayo Clinic.

In fact, if there could be a "poster boy" to exemplify the potential of the new collaboration – noted for its multidisciplinary approach by multiple specialists – it would be David King. The multiple complexities related to his congenital heart disease tested the combined expertise of the team.

By June 2007, David's failing condition was difficult to observe for even the most trained medical professional. Because of fluid build-up, he weighed more than 200 pounds. "David blew up like a balloon," as Lizz describes. Admits David, "There was no slope to my toes. I could feel the fluid jiggling as I walked."

His condition was grave enough that, following a catheterization procedure, his doctors were moved to ask, "How is this guy still alive? He has so much wrong with him." Importantly, the doctors confirmed that there was no doubt that David's 1978 Fontan surgery had failed.

The grim news was taken in stride by David. "I've had so much wrong with me all my life. I was resigned to it. I was ready to go."

Lizz, of course, would accept none of that. "You aren't going anywhere," decreed the self-avowed, "whirling, one-woman advocate" for her husband. Lizz assumed a "team lead" role, inspiring Mary Caniglia, medical practice secretary to Dr. Tajik, to stake out a personal interest in David's case. "Mary was there, every step of the way," notes Lizz. "And when her work day was over, she was at my side during David's surgery."

The team grew by the day as David's condition became the talk of Mayo's Cardiology unit. In addition to Drs. Cohen and Tajik, the team included surgeons Dr. Francisco Arabia and Dr. Teordori and cardiologists Drs. Eric Steidley, Krishnaswamy Chandrasekaran ("Chandra," for short) and Robert Scott.

Liver, Heart, Kidneys – All at Risk for David

It wasn't enough for David's heart to be failing. After multiple tests, it was determined that he had cardiac cirrhosis of the liver, also related to congenital heart disease. The stunning news was that, if necessary, he would be considered for both a liver and a heart transplant – but not without considerable risk. Lizz began praying. "Just think," she remembers thinking. "Forty-eight years of heart problems, and the liver may kill him!"

The surgery, on Aug. 17, 2007, was predicted to last 11 hours, and would determine whether David would need to undergo potential dual liver and heart transplantation. If his liver would fail in surgery, it would be the worst kind of news that Lizz feared she might hear, since there is no mechanical means of survival for liver failure. If his heart would fail, he could be put on a ventricular assist device and probably be listed for transplant. But at the eight-hour juncture, Drs. Tajik and Chandra emerged to tell Lizz, "He's doing okay. He's holding his own. But we have a ways to go."

Dr. Arabia came out next with the news that they were successfully repairing David's heart without the prospect of a transplant. "They don't need me in there," he said, smiling, at which time Lizz let her emotions flow. The surgical team had been able to rule out transplantation and instead do a rerouting of blood – using a Gortex tube sewn in place – to the pulmonary arteries.

Finally, Dr. Teodori took Lizz into the consulting room at 7:15 p.m. to announce, "He did very well." Indeed, David proceeded to heal and shed the excess water. "I asked for a mirror when I was in the ICU," he said. "The last time I had seen myself healthy was in 1998. I burst out crying."

Lizz and David now are living the dream that came to both of them in 2003. This time, it truly involves a future.

"I always used to live by the motto, 'Live for Today,'" confesses David. "That's changed quite a bit. I want to see the sun shine for a while."

This story first appeared in the Spring 2008 issue of In Our Care.