That night, I dreamt my brother was walking down dark alleys, cutting deals with crooked men in black overcoats who were hoarding livers in briefcases to carry to various UCLA surgeons. The next day, we were told that Randy hadn’t met the criteria for a transplant. The recommendations included: (1) six months of sobriety, (2) therapy, (3) documentation of the therapy, (4) continued psychiatric care. He would also need a re-evaluation to determine whether he was competent enough to undergo such a risky undertaking.
For UCLA to confirm Randy’s worthiness to receive the rare gift of a liver transplant, we’d need two letters. The first had to come from Randy’s day-to-day doctor in charge, the second, we hoped, from the doctor who would be assessing Randy. According to the assessor, because of Randy’s record of extreme alcoholism, he would be required to complete the intensive Genesis Alcohol Rehab Program. But we knew Randy was wholly incapable of taking on that task.
Dorrie called Dr. Markson, who wrote a letter to the head of the liver-transplant department at UCLA, asking if Randy could be given the opportunity for a new beginning, even though it was alcohol consumption that had caused his lethal cirrhosis of the liver. Dr. Markson described Randy as a highly imaginative artist who had a good heart and many continuing gifts to share with the world. Without this doctor’s help, I doubt Randy would be alive.
In addition to Dr. Markson, our father, the man who’d toiled his way to success, came back from the dead to save the day. One day later, Mom’s accountant, Terry Ward, sent a large check as a contribution to the Department of Surgery, Liver and Pancreas Transplant Division, at UCLA. Soon after, Randy was secured a place on the list. Jack Hall, his mound of ashes scattered on a rock pile underneath a wooden cross in Tubac, Arizona, bequeathed Randy his transplant number. It was thirty-eight.
I never questioned whether his inclusion on the list was justified. I conveniently avoided pondering the morality of why he was chosen over someone who was more deserving but couldn’t write such a check. He was my brother. The experience—the way it played itself out, the all-too-familiar, painfully sad choices that brought Randy to UCLA—was overwhelming. As Randy waited to be reborn, I wondered if he had it in him—morally, physically, spiritually, emotionally, even genetically—to be a grateful recipient of a second-chance gift of life.
I’ll never forget the day I found him lying on a bed in Room 601, which he shared with three other failing liver patients. There was one Mr. Avery, Edward, and an older Vietnamese gentleman whose bed was by the window. Randy, nearest the door, had pressing reports from the field: “I had a total relapse. Last night, everyone started turning into paintings. They had fangs—I’m telling you the truth.”
In the middle of his next sentence, one of the nurses walked in, handed me a menu, and told me to figure out what John Randolph wanted for his next three meals, because she was tired of putting an “X” for him beside coffee, grape juice, pasta with marinara, Cheerios, scrambled eggs, and pudding. She said he didn’t have a clue what he liked, and he never cooperated.
Without pausing, Randy interjected: “There are so many fucked-up people around here. It’s always this way. You can’t change a thing. Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.”
As the nurse handed me his iced tea, she insisted I at least try to make him understand that he was in a hospital. Randy took a sip, then threw back the covers, revealing his bone-thin purple arms and yellow fingers. “Diane, could you loan me five dollars?”
Suddenly a loud voice over the intercom called for backup, while a nurse shouted, “Mr. Avery, are you all right?” An attendant rushed over to a neighboring bed and screamed, “Mr. Avery, we need to get you oxygen.”
Randy, ignoring the fuss, said, “I’d like to go home, Diane. Even if I don’t get well, I’d like to go home.”
Days later, at 8:25 a.m. on July 25, 2003, I got the call from Randy’s doctor. “I’ve got a liver for your brother, John. We’re going to be transplanting him today at noon.”
When Dorrie and I walked into Room 601, an almost skeletal Randy looked at us and said: “This is a great day. I’ll be able to go to therapy. I’ll walk. I’ll play my guitar. I’ll do my collages and get back to writing.” Dorrie and I gave him a big kiss. Robin called to send her love. The three of us decided to help keep Mom free from worry by hiding the full truth of Randy’s condition and operation. When Randy looked at his reflection in the TV on the wall, he laughed and said, “Geez, I’m an old fart. I hope the surgeon doesn’t do anything stupid. Don’t forget, after they close the curtain, we can go to the movies. We’ll be able to see Seabiscuit with Tobey Maguire.”
That night, Robin, Dorrie, and I got messages from the surgeon. Mine said: “Hi, Diane, how are you? I just wanted to give you a follow-up. It’s about ten-thirty on Friday night. I just left Randy from the ICU. He looks terrific. Hopefully, we’ll get the tube out, probably in the morning, and the liver’s working great. Everything’s going super.”
The intensive-care unit was like being in a full-service 24-7 city of last chance. When I spotted Randy, looking pink, with clear eyes, I wondered why he wasn’t semi-comatose and groaning in pain after seven hours under the knife. Later, I learned he was on steroids.
Almost immediately, he started in with one of his monologues. “So it worked. I’ve got a liver, and it’s a dandy. Did you know Danny DeVito’s here? I hear he’s going to rally. I sure could use a drink. Nurse, you don’t happen to have a cup of water, do you?”
The nurse, who handed me a swab of water on a green sponge that looked like a Popsicle, said, “He’s a real character, your brother. He’s doing well, very, very well.”
In the middle of his steroid-infused monologue, Randy went on: “She undid my legs; the only trouble is, I can’t walk. The damn nurse undid my legs, Diane. Man, I wish I had more water. I don’t know where my stilts are. Have you seen them?”
* * *
—
After several weeks, Randy began getting prepped to be released. There was the lesson on how to use the commode, the oxygen tank, the wheelchair, and even the walker. Dorrie and I were ushered into the belly of the medical center to have our own lessons on physical therapy.
We began to notice that the better he got, the more he became the same old Randy. Dorrie begged him to cut his nails—the same nails the surgeon had warned him about. Randy chose to inform the doctor who’d saved his life that he was the tenth idiot to give directions he had no intention of following. The surgeon responded, “Yes, but I’m your doctor.” At least Randy had the smarts to stay silent as he looked up at the TV set to watch Stanley Holloway in My Fair Lady sing and dance his way through “With a Little Bit of Luck.”