The successes of modern medicine can seem miraculous, but Christopher James Bowers explains why that term can be reductive.
In July of 2022 a man died and hours later his heart and liver were placed into my body so that I could live. Many people told me that I am a miracle. They mean well but something in me recoils. Who can live up to being a miracle? It’s like being given a very big job description that I know I am too foolish and too human to fulfill.
Transplant is considered a treatment not a cure. Some transplant recipients die years later from complications. The immunosuppressant medication alone makes me far more susceptible to disease and cancer. So, if I should die now, am I still a miracle? Or do I become a failed miracle or a could-have-been-a miracle?
Describing me as a miracle does a disservice to all who worked so hard to get me here. I had a wonderful medical team. My wife put all her needs and desires aside for years to take care of me and our new son. I had family and community who prayed for me, donated money, time, child care and love. And I worked hard to survive with a regimen of exercise, meditation, and diet. Not to mention, I had the social privilege of being a white man in a medical system that historically privileges white men. Miracles should not be reserved for only the privileged.
None of this is to say a miracle is not present. I was blessed with the miracle of people who took care of me for four years. And the family of the man whose organs I received offered me a life in the same dark moment of their loss. So, I hold their grief right next to my own joy for living, for seeing my son grow up, for the simple, beautiful moments that none of us are guaranteed. I have that family’s grief-filled love to thank for that. If any miracle exists in this, it is that love, along with the love of my family and community.