Jill Ottow

Well, here I am at long last, my first lung-a-versary!

After nearly 72 years on this beautiful earth, I can say with confidence: some years are longer than others.  Surely, though, it’s true for all of us.

Our journeys—hopefully long ones—are filled with hills and valleys, unexpected turns, beautiful vistas, and both warm relationships and challenging people who we feel glad to have moved on. Long ago, a wise friend likened our lives to a tapestry rich with many fabrics, yarns and textures representing every twist and turn, every rise and fall woven into its beauty. Since then, I have faced many things where I have made a conscious effort to embrace the diversity of my tapestry, carefully picture which type of cloth to represent different events. I suppose today it’s called mindfulness—living in the moment.

My tapestry is long and wide. Two years ago, it occurred to me that it might be coming to an end when my lung disease worsened and a transplant became my only option—an option that was never guaranteed. And thus began my year of evaluations to qualify.

Was it fate that John and I chose to leave our wonderful life in Wisconsin—close to our dear sister—and move to New England with a desire to live closer to our children and grandchildren, to find out we quickly needed some of the best medical care in the world? Did the energy I’ve tried to put “out there” come back to me?

Like when John was diagnosed with cancer just months after our move, and received such successful care at Dana-Farber Cancer Center? Or when Covid likely led to blood clots in my lungs, eventually causing the progressive lung disease that made me a transplant candidate—right here in Boston, home to not one, but two transplant centers?  The mysteries of life don’t come with clear answers. As I round the corner of my first year post-transplant, I’m reminded of that every single day that miracles do happen.

How has it changed me?  What does today feel like?

I cannot say this is a day of contemplation or a day of gratitude. Each day of the past 365 have been those.

I can say that this year has brought my vision sharper, my ears more alert and my heart more open.

Maybe it’s because of my age that I’ve learned to slow down and savor each moment, fretting little over what I now know is the “small stuff.”  Or has my transplant truly transformed me.

This much I know for certain: My family is my greatest asset. There are many, many members of my “Framily” who showed up when we needed them. Gratitude has a different face than it used to.

My transplant team reminded me from the start that this journey would be a marathon, not a sprint—and they were right. This first year was the marathon. Some medications have been dropped, some tests will now be less frequent. I’ll always need to be careful, to take certain meds, and be monitored regularly. But now, I’ve crossed that marathon finish line. And slowly, I’ve begun to sprint again, like a 71 year old.

I’m working with a personal trainer, regaining strength and stamina. I’ve ridden my bike more than 10 miles a few times this season. I’m planning to travel to Europe next year for the first time. We’re expanding our garden again.

I am planning for this to be my last post here.  The funds raised blew our minds and it has been very ample to assist us. To John and each one of my family and to each of you who have loved and supported me and my family through these past four years —thank you, thank you. As for my donor and their family, I send my gratitude out into the universe with each breath every day.

Full of love, Jill