THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, November 14, 1994 TAG: 9411110094
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SERIES: Tina's Heart
Part 2: Recovery
SOURCE: [Diane Tennant]
LENGTH: Long : 527 lines
A new heart, a new heart, a new heart.
Tina could feel every beat of it in her chest. It was making her crazy. Why won't it stop? she cried miserably to herself. But between each beat her mind cried out, Don't stop!
For three days in intensive care, it was all she could think of. She hated the feel of it beating. It made her afraid, afraid that her body would reject the heart, and she would die. After all that waiting, still die.
But four days after surgery, Tina was back in Room 510 H, feeling much better and much less depressed. She was learning the routine and the drugs that she would need for a lifetime: cyclosporin and imuran to stop rejection.
Six days after surgery, Tina called a pizza order in to Chanello's. She was doing well, except for a little fever.
Eight days after surgery, Ivan left her room - alone. Tina was no longer hooked to intravenous lines or to the heart monitor. Free! But trapped in her room. She could not leave her room for fear of exposure to germs in the hospital hallways. The drugs that suppressed her immune system and prevented her body from rejecting the new heart left her vulnerable to infection. Because of that, her door was kept shut at all times. However, she could have visitors, as long as they scrubbed with antiseptic soap and wore sterile paper gowns and masks.
Tina sat on the edge of her bed, hopefully scratching lottery tickets for cash toward the blue Mustang she craved. Natalia, garbed in yellow paper, perched by the window.
``Are these gowns, like, really necessary?'' she complained. ``Because I am burning.''
``You can turn the air conditioner on,'' Tina said, glancing up. Since dropping the intravenous drugs, she no longer felt hot all the time.
I can't believe your room is normal temperature, Natalia said.
I can't believe I'm going home in two days, Tina replied. Just 11 days after surgery.
``I've got to de-germ my house tomorrow,'' Beverly said. ``Give the animals a bath. Kitty's gonna love a bath.''
Oh, Natalia exclaimed. I made a video of your cat the other day, after I locked myself out of the house. I brought it to show you. Do you have a VCR?
Then she looked at her sterile gown doubtfully. ``The stuff you bring in is, like, contaminated, isn't it?'' She looked at the McDonald's bag sitting on Tina's table.
She's supposed to wash before touching anything, wash after touching everything, Beverly explained.
``I'm gonna be the most scrubbed person,'' Tina complained mildly, bending over her tickets.
``Any winners yet?'' Beverly asked.
``This is a loser. At this rate, I'm never getting a Mustang.''
``Hey!'' Natalia exclaimed. ``Have you been to the mall lately? They had a really nice one there - a red one. I thought, oh, Tina would love this.''
``Mustang GT convertible,'' Tina mused. ``Oooohhhh. I would have such fits.''
``I want a plaid car. That would be cool,'' Natalia said.
``I want a friend with taste,'' Tina replied, wrinkling her nose.
``When are you gonna get your license?'' Natalia pursued.
``As soon as I get out of prison here.''
``After you learn to drive.''
``Yeah.''
``It's weird not to see you hooked up to your telemetry box or your Ivan pole,'' Beverly said.
``I can't believe I'm going home,'' her daughter said. ``It's like I still don't believe I've had my transplant. Sometimes the phone will ring at night and I'll think, oh, I hope it's not The Call. And then I remember, oh, yeah. .
``I think you've been here long enough,'' Beverly reminded.
``At least I can go to band camp.''
``When are you gonna go back to school?'' Natalia asked eagerly.
``I talked to the infectious disease doctor and he said he had no objection to my going back. Now I have to talk to the cardiologist. What are we gonna be in next year, besides band?''
``Let's sign up for a sorority.''
``I don't want to be in a sorority.''
``Tennis! No, that's already started.''
``I want to be in yearbook but you have to be in journalism for that.''
Beverly interrupted. ``Tina, what do you want to do now?''
``Can you go outside yet?'' Natalia asked.
``No,'' Beverly said. ``It's too hot. They don't want her to go outside while it's so hot.''
``Are you allowed to sweat?'' Natalia asked.
``Tina's heart is normal,'' Beverly said, laughing. ``It's just like ours. It hasn't been worked on. It's a normal heart.''
``I'm normal now,'' Tina added. ``My immune system's just a little bit weaker.''
``Jo-Ann was supposed to bring me a thermometer so I could take your temperature,'' Beverly remembered.
``Mmmmooooommmmmmm.''
``No, she told me to.'' And Beverly went out to find one. When she returned, the digital readout said 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit.
``Huh?'' Natalia said. ``Is that a fever?''
``Uh huh. Low grade. It's just from those shots.''
I'm going home in two days, Tina thought happily. I'm going back to school. I'm really back to normal.
Early Sunday morning, registered nurse Karen Kreuger double-checked the medicine list before going into Tina's room. It was 7:30. Her young charge was sound asleep, and probably would stay that way until at least 11, if everyone left her alone. But that was unlikely, because Tina was going home tomorrow.
Debbie arrived. Sunday was her day off, but she couldn't leave Tina alone. Especially since she carried some potentially bad news. Tina's blood test, taken the day before, was positive for infection.
Debbie scrubbed, gowned and tiptoed to the bedside. ``Good morning, Tina,'' she whispered, stroking the hair from Tina's forehead. ``Feeling OK?''
Tina nodded, without opening her eyes. Debbie listened to her chest, peeked under the bandage.
``How's the headache?''
A nod.
``Hurt a little bit yesterday?''
A nod.
``Did Dr. Schneider call you?''
A shake of the head.
``Thanks, Tina.''
Debbie left the room just as Dr. Charles A. Bullaboy, the cardiologist, arrived.
``We have a positive culture today,'' Debbie told him.
``Well, what does infectious disease say?''
``They haven't been by yet.''
``What's her white count?''
``Still pending.''
``She still looks good like she did yesterday?''
Debbie smiled. ``Looks good.''
The resident, Dr. Joanne Wunderlich, came in. ``Good morning. How's Miss Tina this morning?''
``Sleeping,'' Debbie answered. ``She has a positive culture, though.''
``Oh, no.''
``38.3 (101 degrees Fahrenheit) was her max temp and she had Tylenol twice for headaches.''
``Oh, geez. Oh, man. Poor Tina.''
``But no rejection,'' Debbie added quickly.
``Has she been up already this morning?'' Wunderlich asked.
``She's arousable for the three of us who have been in there,'' Debbie replied.
``She's not gonna bite my head off then?''
``No, she's awake enough to let you poke her and look at her, but she goes back to sleep.
``She still has these moments of panic,'' Debbie added, ``when she regresses to terror. You could see it in her face.''
``I'm still amazed that these kids have their chests split wide open and then. . . ,'' Wunderlich's voice trailed off.
Dr. Doug Mitchell, infectious disease specialist, strode up to Debbie.
``I know,'' she said, in answer to his unspoken question. ``What does this mean, doctor?''
Mitchell yanked his hand across his chest. Pull out the catheter, he said. The infection may just be in the line.
``Does that mean stay in the hospital or can we treat at home?''
``My preference would be to get her line out and watch for fever for a couple days,'' Mitchell replied.
``Glenn (Barnhart) wanted to get her away from hospital germs.''
``I hate to delay that, but she's got a positive culture.''
Debbie telephoned Barnhart. ``Concern about Tina Buck this morning,'' she said into the receiver. ``Her culture was again positive. . . OK. . . We haven't had to rise to that occasion. . . Dr. Mitchell, and he's right here with me.''
Mitchell took the phone. ``Morning. . . I'm all right, how are you?. . . That sounds like the universal conclusion.''
He hung up the phone. By 9:45 a.m., the decision was made. Tina wasn't going anywhere.
Nothing improved over the next few days. The fever hung on, although the next blood tests showed no infection. Antibiotics were ordered, just in case. Tina was depressed and frightened. Is it rejection? she thought. Is it a blood clot in my neck? And today is a heart biopsy.
Tina hated biopsies, but they were essential. Once a week for six weeks, then every two weeks, then every month, then once a year for the rest of her life. A tube snaked through a blood vessel in her thigh, up to her heart. A tiny snip of tissue taken from inside her heart, to be examined under a microscope for signs of rejection. Six hours of lying flat on her back afterward, while the anesthesia and the upset wore off.
``It burns,'' Tina wailed, as Kreuger injected drugs into her IV line. ``It really hurts.''
Beverly was frustrated. Tina wasn't allowed to go outside, as had been promised the week before. The tests were all negative. At least, she thought, the hospital staff is being honest. They're telling us they don't know why Tina has a fever. But until it's gone, they can't let her go home.
``Today's your two-week heart anniversary,'' a staffer said, smiling. Tina would not be cheered.
``I was supposed to go home,'' she sniffed. Beverly handed her a paper towel to dry her eyes. ``Feel OK?'' she asked.
``I get really cold and then after a while I get really hot. But I feel OK. I get so cold. I climb under the blankets.''
Beverly, anticipating Tina's discharge, had taken a week's vacation from work. Wasted. Tina was just sitting in a hospital room, a room stripped bare of her stuffed animals and posters to lower the risk of infection. Thank God, she thought, at least insurance should pay this entire bill. I don't even know how much it has cost so far. Exactly 16 weeks in the hospital. Transplant surgery. Biopsies. Drugs.
A heart recipient who waits four to five months can run up a bill of about $300,000, but individual costs can vary widely. That doesn't include doctors' fees.
Just one bottle of Tina's medicine costs $250, Beverly thought, and she uses 2 1/2 bottles a month.
Tina sighed into her hand. ``I'm hot.''
``Good, maybe that means your fever's coming down.''
``He told me that a fever couldn't keep me here, but they couldn't tell me where it was coming from. They come in and stick me every day and nothing happens. They just have a bunch of blood from different days and they still don't know.''
Beverly tried to find a more cheerful topic. Dr. Barnhart said you might start school in mid-September, she said.
``I'm probably gonna be paranoid to go anywhere,'' Tina said gloomily. The band has an overnight trip to Myrtle Beach in November. I want to go. But I'm scared. Scared to go too far from the hospital.
``I'm really starting to hate it here,'' she said tearfully. ``I feel cheated. I gave them my whole summer and now. . . I know I'm really, really lucky but they keep telling me I get to go home. . . .This is even worse than before the transplant because I knew I couldn't go home then but now they keep setting dates and taking them away.''
Kreuger stuck her head in the door. ``They're gonna take you earlier for the biopsy,'' she said.
``No!'' Tina cried. ``When?''
``Like 3 o'clock.''
``That's 15 minutes from now!''
The stretcher came, and the heart lab nurses. Tina changed from street clothes into a hospital gown and tentatively climbed on the stretcher.
``Does this medicine burn when it goes in?'' she quavered, her eyes on the IV needles in the nurses' hand.
``It might sting just a little bit when it goes in but it usually doesn't sting very much,'' said nurse Linda Austin.
``I'm scared.''
``Scared of what?''
``That it's gonna burn.''
``You can hold my hand like you did last time.''
``I'm scared,'' Tina whispered.
``Slow breath. Slow, deep breath through your mouth and out your nose, remember? Except your nose is probably stopped up now because you've been crying.''
``I want some tissues,'' Tina moaned.
``If everything goes good with this biopsy, you might go home, OK?'' Austin said. ``That's the good part, OK? Slow breath now.''
``Oh, it stings!''
``Slow and easy. OK? You're doing fine. Slow and easy. Slow and easy.''
``You're gonna be all right,'' Beverly soothed. ``This is just one more thing they've got to check.''
``Ooohhh, it stings.''
``Hold my hand,'' Austin directed.
``Ow, it stings!'' Tina wailed.
``Hold my hand, Tina. Slow breaths, slow breaths. The medicine's all in, sweetie.''
The stretcher rolled down the hall to the elevator, then to the cath lab. The bright lights were full on the table as Tina climbed on, and the nurses injected the anesthesia.
``Oooohhh, Debbie! I'm scared!''
``What are you scared of?''
``It hurts! You're pulling me! It hurts!''
``I'm not pulling you.''
``It's my chest!''
``Just relax. Take slow breaths.
``Oh, it hurts. I can't breathe. My back, my back!''
The nurses cringed at each cry, dreading to hurt her, having to hurt her, having to offer comfort while giving pain.
``The ketamine stings her vein,'' a nurse said to cardiologist Dr. John Coulson, who was waiting for Tina to fall asleep. ``Do you want to give her something else or just give it slowly?''
``Just give it slowly,'' Coulson replied. ``Is she getting sleepy?''
``Ummmmm, not really.''
Tina moaned, and Debbie wiped away her tears.
``They just get themselves so worked up, it doesn't matter what sedative you give them,'' the nurse remarked. ``It must be this age group of transplant patients.''
Tina drifted away. The medicine left her half awake, in a dream-like state, able to breathe without a ventilator, able to talk and answer questions, but unable to remember anything that happened.
``Ow,'' Tina said mildly. ``Debbie, where are you? Help me.''
The biopsy was finished quickly, and three samples were sent to the lab. Debbie leaned over Tina's face and spoke to her about going home. ``. . . and Jinx will be running around. . . ''
A beautiful smile spread across Tina's face, but her eyes stayed closed. Debbie kept up the small talk, helping Tina wake up.
``My lips feel big,'' Tina remarked.
``What would it be like to kiss somebody right now?'' Debbie teased gently.
``Oh, that's gross.''
Coulson walked down to the waiting room to find Beverly. ``She did fine,'' he told her. ``She was anxious, as expected. We gave her a very large quantity of sedative drugs. Now she's in recovery and you can go see her.''
``Is she awake?''
``She's asking me what I think about when she might go home.''
``I know, she's asking everybody.''
``We'll have the biopsy results and if there's no rejection, we'll have one of two possibilities. One is an infection and one is just recovering from the operation. Hopefully, it's just that.''
Hopefully, Beverly thought, and walked into the recovery room.
But five days later, Tina still had a fever. Her heart is fine, the doctors said. There's no rejection and no infection. We don't know why she has the fever. But we may let her go home anyway.
Schedule another biopsy, they said. If there's still no rejection, we'll discharge her.
Debbie told Tina the good news. But Tina refused to be cheered. They told me that twice before, she said. I don't believe it.
I just don't believe it.
The next day, Tina was back in the biopsy room. She refused to smile for the nurses, refused to get excited about the possibility of going home that afternoon. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders and shivered.
Beverly had brought Tina's going-home clothes: jeans, a T-shirt and black Reeboks. Just what Tina had asked for. Once again, Beverly cuddled a teddy bear in her lap while she sat in the waiting room.
The biopsy went smoothly, and Tina was back in her room by 4 p.m. She refused to change out of her hospital gown, refused to get out of bed.
``Well, do I dare start filling out this 40,000-page discharge form?'' nurse Jo-Ann Pergerson asked a colleague.
``Tina going home?''
``Don't know yet. Haven't got the biopsy results.''
``When will those come back?''
``Five o'clock, they're saying. I don't want to jinx anything by filling out this discharge.''
Family members, friends and nurses began filtering into Tina's room, laughing but nervous, anxiously waiting to see whether Tina would be going home.
Dr. Schneider opened her door and stuck his head in. ``I don't know anything,'' he said hastily, and everyone groaned. ``I came up to ask you if you knew. I won't open the door again until I know something.''
``Tina won't get dressed until she knows,'' Beverly told him.
``Is she cold?'' Schneider asked, peeking at Tina, huddled pale and shivering inside a blanket.
``Cold and nervous.''
More nurses came by, and secretaries and operating room personnel. Every time the phone rang at the nurses' station, everyone jumped and craned to listen. The dinner tray arrived at 5:30. Tina refused to have it in the room.
Finally, the elevator doors opened at the far end of the hall. Debbie, Schneider and the pathologist, Atef Sayed, walked side by side toward Tina's room. Schneider opened the door.
``We brought the expert to tell you, because you've never met the expert,'' he told Tina.
``You can relax,'' Sayed said. ``You can go home. The biopsy is normal.''
``Get out of bed and get dressed!'' Darren exclaimed.
``Are you kidding?'' Tina whispered.
``No, I'm not kidding you, I'm telling you the truth,'' Sayed assured her. Tina burst into tears and pulled the blankets under her chin.
``I'm happy,'' she said between sobs.
Kreuger clapped her hands. ``I'm gonna miss you,'' she told Tina. ``Get out of here! What are you waiting for?''
Schneider leaned over to Pergerson and whispered, ``She isn't dressed yet! I'd be dressed and out of here.''
Finally, Tina climbed out of bed. At 6:20, Darren came out of her room, keys in his hand. ``The moment I've been waiting for,'' he told the nurses. ``Thank you all.''
Tina walked unsteadily out of her room, the white blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes red and watery over the surgical mask she wore to protect her from hospital germs. She smiled weakly once she got outside, and took the mask off.
``Don't push it too hard, OK?'' Schneider told her.
``I'll call you,'' Beverly said to him. ``Lots.''
Darren pulled up in the Dodge Ram. One day short of 17 weeks, Tina left the hospital. The promise of the rainbow had come true.
When she walked in her front door, Jinx came running to lick her chin and rub against her. Tina looked around at the house she hadn't seen since April, and sat down.
``What am I gonna do now?'' she asked.
The lecture hall was filled with at least 100 would-be doctors, all looking at Tina. Composed and pretty, she looked right back.
Tina had become braver in the weeks following discharge. She had gone to band camp, and watched her friends practice marching routines for football season. She had ventured to the mall for shopping. She had even agreed to Schneider's request to answer questions for a class of second-year medical students at Eastern Virginia Medical School.
``I can't believe you had this surgery just a month ago and you look great,'' one student said.
``It's hard to adjust to taking all the medicines,'' Tina replied. ``I feel like I'm taking all the medicines there are.''
``How long do they stay on immunosuppressants (immune-suppressing drugs)?'' another student asked.
``Forever,'' Dr. Schneider answered. ``The body is never going to see that heart as being its own.''
``Tina, what did you do when you were in the hospital waiting for your transplant?''
``I'd have my friends over a lot. We'd wander around the hospital. That was about all.''
``She picked out a new car,'' Schneider noted.
``I didn't get it,'' Tina shot back.
``When you got your transplant, can you tell us what it was like for you? Did you feel scared or excited?''
``Scared. It's been worse after than before. Now I'm afraid to do anything because I think this heart might mess up. I'm scared I'll see people in school and they'll be sick and I'll get it and I'll have to come back to the hospital. I'll leave campus for lunch because they don't want me in the cafeteria. And I'll leave class five minutes early so I don't have to meet everyone in the hallway.''
Debbie, seated nearby, smiled encouragement at Tina. Back to band on Friday, Sept. 16. Back to school on Monday, Sept. 19. Tina, she thought, was on her way back to normal.
But the next day, Sept. 15, Tina had a headache. I want to go to band practice so I can get my uniform, she told Beverly. But I don't feel like marching.
You still want to march Friday night? Beverly asked. It was hard to resist feeling Tina's forehead for signs of fever, but she managed. She drove Tina to Indian River High School, where the band was practicing on the front lawn.
Natalia waved enthusiastically from the flag line. Tina sat down in the shade. Another student drifted over, to quiz Tina about her class schedule. The band parent in charge of uniforms finally arrived, and found a uniform small enough to fit. Tina tried it on, took it off, and sat down.
Beverly could stand it no longer. Her palm rested briefly on Tina's forehead. No fever. That was good. But she just couldn't shake her worry.
Friday was better. Tina was cheerful and rested, ready to stop by the hospital for a final evaluation by exercise specialist John Brennan, who would sign off - hopefully - on her return to school in three days. And tonight she would march pre-game with the band, playing her clarinet.
She groaned about riding the exercise bike, complained about the treadmill. I've been shopping, she said, and I went to a batting cage.
What are your goals? Brennan asked.
``I want to be able to go to my band competitions.''
``Competitions?''
``We have one in Myrtle Beach.''
``When?''
``November.''
``I'm gonna put down here increase - so you can do that - your strength and your cardiovascular endurance. How long do the competitions last?
``All day. The one in Myrtle Beach is overnight.''
``Wow. How long are you on the field?''
``Ten minutes.''
``OK, OK. I don't want to put my foot in my mouth but I don't see why you can't do that.''
Tina beamed. Let me out of here, she said. I have to get to the football game tonight. And to school on Monday.
Beverly's work phone rang at 7:30 a.m. Saturday. Mom? Tina said. My heart feels kinda funny, but I'm OK.
Beverly dashed home to listen to Tina's heart. It's definitely skipping beats, she said. Later in the day, Tina began vomiting. My head feels funny, she cried.
Rejection? she wondered, terrified. And then came the seizure, and the ambulance to the emergency room.
I don't want to die! she cried in her mind, as the sirens wailed.
Round after round of tests showed nothing. Brain scans, drug side effects, biopsies. Nothing.
The doctors began to suspect it was all psychological. Tina's anxieties, they said, are causing physical symptoms. She's so scared that her heart will malfunction that she causes it to do so.
Tina has always been a perfectionist, Beverly said. And then her heart failed, and she couldn't do anything about it. She got a new heart, and she can't control it. The class honors student, shut out of school. She's afraid that, when she goes back, she'll be different, that her classmates will stare and whisper. She's so used to being monitored and tested that she's afraid to go without it, afraid to leave home and family, afraid to go too far from the hospital. She's just afraid.
Debbie was also concerned. She's just not Tina now, Debbie thought. She acts like she's in a fog half the time. Sometimes she can't remember what caused her heart problems, and the next minute she's lucid and sharp.
It's so hard for teenage transplant patients, she thought. The heart is a physical organ, but it's so wrapped in emotion. I love you with all my heart. Don't break my heart. Bless your heart.
Bless them, she thought. They're just old enough to know the risks, young enough to magnify them into uncontrollable fear.
Her own heart ached for Tina's new one, as she scheduled an appointment with a behavioral psychologist.
Slowly, through the month of October, Tina struggled back. Tests kept showing no physical problems. The new heart was working beautifully. Tina met faithfully with the psychologist.
They worked together on the reality of heart transplants. They talked about death and dying. Tina ventured out of the house on a shopping trip.
Dr. Barnhart agreed to set the biopsies a month apart. That's not the usual schedule, he told Debbie, but medically she's fine, and they cause Tina too much anxiety to hold them closer together.
The infectious disease staff decided to let Tina brave the crowd in the school cafeteria, wrestle her way through the crowded hallways during class change. Better she face the germs, they said, than have to deal with the mental pressure of being different from her classmates.
The homebound teacher began preparing lessons for Tina in geometry, chemistry, honors English, honors history, Spanish II.
Tina was self-conscious of her handwriting. One of the drugs that was keeping her alive made her hands tremble, sometimes uncontrollably.
Tina ventured back to band practice.
And back in the operating room, the 17th transplant patient at Children's Hospital received a new heart.
It's a baby, and she's doing well, Debbie told Tina. So am I, Tina replied. I'm going back to school on Oct. 12.
And this time, she made it. She was tired when the day ended, but elated. Now I'm going to Myrtle Beach, she told her mother. I'm going to march with the band.
The wind was chilly at 5 a.m. on Nov. 5, but Tina wrapped up in her wool band jacket and stepped out of the car. Beverly toted the band uniform, the shoes, the hat, the food bag, the medicine kit. Tina hugged the pillow to her chest, a little scared, but determined.
Sequins glittered blue under the street lights, and instrument cases piled up next to the two idling Gold Star buses. In about seven hours, the competition would begin. I get the window seat, Tina told Beverly.
Tina's fears had resurfaced the night before, but she had overcome them. Beverly was proud of her, but unwilling to let her go so far alone. She and Darren were planning to drive behind the buses to Myrtle Beach.
In the dark, Tina's desire to be just part of the crowd came true. She faded into the milling pack of students, looking for Natalia. Beverly stood by the bus and waited.
Tina reappeared, kissed Beverly good-bye. ``I love you, mom,'' she said.
``I love you,'' Beverly responded.
Tina stepped on the bus, prepared for a long trip. Ups and downs, hills and valleys, unexpected curves. The sky was black, but along the horizon the dawn came. Beverly walked the length of the bus, looking for Tina's window.
The buses pulled away, and sunrise painted the sky blue, green, yellow, red. All the colors of the rainbow. MEMO: For more information on organ donation, or to arrange for speakers, call
LifeNet at (800) 847-7831
ILLUSTRATION: Color staff photos by Motoya Nakamura
Biopsies were never fun, but anxiety heightened pain, above. Home
videos made by friend Natalia Astudilo helped brighten the days, but
Tina was still depressed when a fever kept her hospitalized.
The anticipated day came, and doctors and nurses escorted Tina on
the first steps toward home.Below, Jinx, Tina's cat, was pleased at
her return.
Afraid that her new heart would malfunction, Tina quietly checks her
heart beat.
Color photo by Bill Tiernan
But she returned to march with the band for the pregame show,
below.
B\W photo by Motoya Nakamura.
Determined not to let fear ruin her second chance at life, Tina
worked hard to prepare for an out-of-town band competition.
Hospitals will always be a part of her life but-hopefully- a minor
part.
B\W photo by Bill Tiernan
[Tina leaving the hospital]
Facts about Organ donation
[for copy of facts, see microfilm]
by CNB