Chuck Fisher

For most of his life, Chuck Fisher was everybody's go-to guy.

He owned a heating and ventilation business, employed 125 people, had customers all over the Twin Cities, served as president of two professional organizations, was a surrogate Dad to three of his five grandchildren, and taught classes that helped other kids learn a trade and get ahead. At age 55, Chuck was on the go 13 hours a day, six days a week.

He also had a family history of early heart disease. "My father died of it," says Chuck, "so did many of my aunts and uncles, and one of my six children. My wife, Bonnie, kept asking me to stop pushing so hard. But I had a family to care for, a business to run, and people who counted on me."

Chuck pushed on until his body pushed back.

History repeats itself

In May 1998, Chuck wasn't feeling well.

"I began slowing down physically and mentally," he says. "Of course, being a typical male, I was bullheaded. I hid things. I never complained about the pain and I never missed a day's work. Although I did start to love winter so I could go to bed early. I think I ignored the symptoms of our family history because it never occurred to me someone could fix it."

When he became so short of breath he couldn't sleep or even lay flat, Chuck made an appointment with a local cardiologist who diagnosed him with bronchitis and prescribed antibiotics. They didn't help. Chuck switched to a different cardiologist who diagnosed congestive heart failure, a disease that weakens the heart so it is unable to pump blood efficiently through the body. Chuck was hospitalized for two days to drain the fluid around his heart and lungs.

"We stayed with that cardiologist for a year," says Bonnie. But Chuck's health and stamina continued to degenerate. "Finally, the doctor said there was nothing else he could do. He told us to come back when Chuck couldn't walk the equivalent of his office floor — six feet."

Bonnie tried to talk Chuck into getting a second opinion. Mayo Clinic was only 70 miles down the road. "Let's go there," she said.

In so many words, Chuck's answer was no. "I was just being stubborn," he says.

Just what the barber ordered

"One day, I was getting my hair cut and talking about what the cardiologist had said, and my barber asked if I ever thought about going to Mayo?" says Chuck. "So I went back to my office and told Bonnie it was OK to make an appointment at Mayo Clinic."

Bonnie laughs. "I said, 'Great. You won't take advice from me, but you will listen to your barber?' Then he went to lunch and I got on the Internet and got the phone number of Mayo Clinic. I called and told them what was going on with Chuck. That was on Friday, June 25. They said come in first thing, 8 a.m. Monday morning for a complete evaluation in the Mayo Congestive Heart Failure Clinic. I was so surprised that they reacted so fast."

As the Fishers would learn, one of Mayo's defining strengths is a multidisciplinary team approach to the complex and sudden problems of heart disease. Mayo's Congestive Heart Failure program combines the expertise of cardiologists, transplant cardiologists, cardiac surgeons, specially trained nurses, dietitians and others to provide prompt and complete patient care.

Mayo diagnosed Chuck with Stage III Congestive Heart Failure Cardiomyopathy. "They told us if he did not respond to medical management, a transplant may need to be considered," says Bonnie. "They fine-tuned his medicine and sent us to a class on diet, exercise and lifestyle changes. That was something we had not heard before — lifestyle changes. They also scheduled us for regular follow-ups at the Heart Failure Clinic."

Here for you

"Mayo said never hesitate to call, no matter what," says Bonnie. "They meant it, too. Once Chuck had an episode so bad, we rushed to the emergency room at a local hospital. They told us sit and wait. So we called Mayo. They said come right up, and they met us with a wheelchair and took us right in."

In October 2000, Chuck was admitted to Saint Marys Hospital for an irregular heartbeat so severe that cardioversion, an electronic procedure, was needed to shock his heart back to a normal rhythm.

"Mayo brought up the possibility of a heart transplant," says Chuck. "I said, 'Well, I don't believe I want one. Give it to someone younger.' My attitude was, I had lived 56 years and if that was all I was going to have, then that was all I was going to have. I decided to stay on medication. The doctor said I could probably go another one to four years that way, and I said, 'Great. I'll take four.'"

He made it to three.

In March 2001, Chuck went into Saint Marys for a second cardioversion.

In February 2003, he had a third. This time, medicine and cardioversions had done all they could. His heart had become too weak to circulate enough blood to keep his body alive. His kidneys were failing. Time had run out. Chuck's medical team projected he had three to five days to live without a biventricular assist device (VAD) or artificial heart, a bridge to heart transplant.

"The head cardiologist said that we had to make a decision," says Bonnie, "and Chuck agreed to go on the machine — but to this day he can't remember it because he was so weak."

Waiting for a heart

Two days later, the surgeons implanted Chuck's VAD.

"I woke up in the ICU," he says, "and I saw a circle of heads. First, I made out my brother and sister-in-law, then son Tommy, then the VAD. It was the size of a refrigerator."

In three weeks, Chuck traded the refrigerator for a suitcase VAD and transferred from the ICU to the main hospital to await transplant.

Room 6D-752 became his home away from home for the next five months.

Saint Marys Hospital became Saint Marys hospitality. "I never met so many wonderful, beautiful people, especially the nurses," says Chuck. "They were my staff of life. They were concerned, well educated, and practiced what they learned. They even treated me like their dad. It was fantastic."

The friendships helped him cope. Transplantation requires a three-point match: tissue, blood, and size. Three times, there were donors but never a match. "Those were my darkest moments," he says. "Those false alarms."

It was July 17. "The doctors come over in the morning and said, 'This is it, we have a match. Your transplant is 12 noon today.' Everyone was jubilant. The nurses wanted to help get me a shower and a shave and be ready to go into the operating room. I said, 'I have a haircut scheduled. My barber is on his way from St. Paul. I want to get my hair cut before going in the operating room because if I happen to end up in to Heaven today, I want to look good.' When my barber arrived, the nurses draped me with a bed sheet."

"That room was electric with excitement," say Bonnie.

Two weeks after transplantation, Chuck was strong enough to leave the hospital. "Mayo wanted me to stay in Rochester at the Gift of Life Transplant House. It is a long-term house for people who are recovering after a transplant," says Chuck. "It's like a big support group; everyone is concerned for one another, and we had the chance to teach and learn from each other. I learned about every kind of organ transplant there is: liver, kidney, stem cells, all of it."

Back to the future

"God gives us our good and bad times," says Chuck. "Then He asks, 'What you will do with them?' In my lifetime, I've had my share of both. Through my illness, we lost our business. However, through someone else's kindness, I gained a future."

"I don't know the circumstances that took my donor's life. I am sad for the family, but I am proud of the person for the lesson I have always tried to teach my kids. Donate your time, donate your knowledge, and donate your resources. Otherwise, they die with you instead of helping other people improve their lives.

"Mayo was there for me, and I still keep that friendship. I bring M&M's to the nurses and surgeons. I visit other transplant patients and encourage them. And every day I remember what someone else did for me."

Especially on the day Chuck went home. Ten weeks after transplantation, Chuck walked out of Mayo Clinic, went back to Apple Valley, celebrated his 60th birthday, and began the letter he thought he'd never live to write.

— September 28, 2003
Dear Donor Family,
My name is Chuck ...