Shaw - Last night in the OR: a transplant surgeons odyssey

We cant know, let alone remember all the people whose presence shapes what we become. At least I cant, and thats my excuse for failing to recognize all of those Ill now leave out, from the teachers who wouldnt let me get away with mediocrity and the guys who plucked my nineteen-year-old hitchhiking self from the freeway one frigid midnight and spent the next eighty miles trying to convince me to become gay, to the few teachers who worked so diligently at making students feel small and useless and the many more whose patience and faith often felt undeserved yet no less inspiring. They all played a role. That said, I want to recognize a few, not necessarily because they are most important, but because of their persistence.

When I was six years old, my mother made writing stories a work of joy and pride. I discovered an alternate world, one in which I had complete control. Her untimely death changed all worlds forever, infusing a reality I spent decades denying, no matter how real it became. My father taught me to be my own worst critic, from a similarly early age, less with his words than with the intangible signs of his joy and disappointment. He was also my hero, in so many wonderful ways. I miss him horribly.

Until Mr. Leonard Gwizdowski gave me my first C grade in fifth grade, Id never received less than an A on anything. My mother was outraged with him, but Gwizzy stood his ground and I had to learn to studyreally study. Six years later, Mrs. Mildred Veler gave me a required reading list separate from the other students. Youre lazy, she said, and told me to start with Joyce. At Kenyon College, William Klein called my freshman prose verbose and obtuse, Galbraith Crump brought Shakespeare to life, Perry Lenz left Americas great literary heritage deeply imprinted on my soul, and John Ward showed me unexpected joy in Smollett, Defoe, Bronte, Austen, Richardson, and Thackeray.

In Utah, so many surgeons proved critical to my training, including fellow residents, faculty, and dozens of private surgeons. Im compelled to thank Frank Moody for setting such an annoyingly high standard for all of us and for always pushing me to be my best, despite my resistance. Gary Maxwell did more to lead me into transplantation than anyone. He inspired me with both his compassion and his astonishing abilities.

At Pittsburgh, I learned kidney transplantation from Tom Hakala, Tom Rosenthal, and Rod Taylor. I witnessed the unflinching integrity of Hank Bahnson, the unbreakable loyalty of Shun Iwatsuki, and the unstoppable drive of Tom Starzl. I owe more than I can ever express to Shun for being there to save my sorry ass over and over, and to Tom for being the font from which so many of my opportunities flowed.

In 1985, Bob Baker, Charlie Andrews, Bob Waldman, and, most important, Mike Sorrell and Bing Rikkers put together a proposal that pulled Bob Duckworth, Laurie Williams, Pat Wood, and me from Pittsburgh to Omaha, Nebraska. Together with Joe Anderson, Jim Chapin, Barb Hurlbert, Rod Markin, and Reed Peters, we forever changed the University of Nebraska Medical Center. My appreciation of the risks these people all accepted to make our work such a huge success is undying. Their expertise and dedication were indispensable.

I have many friends who read my earlier work and encouraged me to keep trying, including Jamie and Kyle, Carlos and Kathy, Bill and Chris, Steve and Genni, Mike Duff, and especially Dirk and Cath, whose friendship and faith are unflinching.

This book would never have come to life without the reboot I got from Steve Langan and the many participants in his Seven Doctors Project, the stubborn faith and encouragement of Amy Grace Loyd, and Jonis Agees willingness to introduce me to Noah Ballard, who as my agent has brought wonders to my life. The confident enthusiasm that he and Matthew Daddona, the worlds most gently tenacious editor, have brought to this work both astounds and delights me. Bo Caldwell and Ron Hansen unwittingly inspire me, most especially with their grace in success. Lee Gutkind introduced me to creative nonfiction during many sleepless nights together in Pittsburgh; his guidance has been invaluable.

My brother, Steve, and sisters, Mindy and Beth, may not agree with my versions of the events of our lives upon which Ive shone so much wattage, but obviously my memory is better than theirs. I apologize for repetitively nagging them for details none of us see so clearly anymore, and I thank them for allowing me this indulgence.