“I’m Still Here”
Heart Transplant Patient “Still Ticking” After Two Decades

As Eva Washington watched the plane taxi down the runway, then gather speed in preparation for takeoff, she said a little prayer. On board was her critically ill husband Charles, on his way to Houston for a heart transplant.

Doctors had warned Eva that her husband would likely die during takeoff. The subtle shift in oxygen levels as the plane rose higher and higher would overburden his failing heart, they said.

On the other hand, if Charles remained hospitalized in his home state of Tennessee, he wouldn’t last the week. A transplant was his only hope.

“The pilot told me if the plane circled in the sky and came back down, Charles died. But if the plane kept going, he survived.”

Up and up went the plane in a gradual ascent, until, as Eva recalls, “it leveled off, and took off like a bird.”

“That moment, I felt I could jump as high as the sky. I was crying and laughing at the same time ... my son had his arms stretched upward and was shouting ‘My daddy’s going to live!’”

That was 20 years ago. Today, Charles Washington ranks among the top-10 longest survivors of heart transplants in the United States, and is a walking testament to the success of the transplant program at Texas Heart Institute. On May 2, Washington returned to the institute, along with a host of family, friends, and professional colleagues, to celebrate the 20th anniversary of what he calls “my second birthday” – the day he received his transplant.

“To the surprise of many, I’m still here. And guess what? I’m staying,” he joked while addressing a cheering crowd of doctors, nurses, and others who are crucial in keeping transplant patients alive.

At 67, Charles Washington is newly retired from a career as a research chemist involved in developing weapons systems. Employed in top-secret missions, Washington created the uranium-based artillery that penetrates and destroys tanks, most recently employed in Operation Iraqi Freedom.

“For years I asked Charles what he did for a living, and all he’d say was ‘I can’t tell you.’ Now I see why,” said O.H. “Bud” Frazier, M.D., chief of cardiopulmonary transplantation and director of surgical research at the Texas Heart Institute, and chief of transplant service at St. Luke’s Episcopal Hospital.

Frazier performed Washington’s transplant in 1983, and has kept tabs on his patient ever since. Once a year, Washington jets into Houston for a head-to-toe checkup. So far, he’s in top working order.

That’s a long way from that fateful night on Labor Day 1982, when Washington, then 47, was sharing a home-cooked dinner with his wife. The couple planned to watch a television movie afterward.

“Charles walked past the TV and headed for the bedroom, so I followed. I didn’t want to watch a movie by myself,” recalls Eva.

That’s when she found her ashen-faced husband drenched in perspiration, laying fully clothed on the still made-up bed.

“Call an ambulance,” he whispered, his face writhed in pain.

Charles Washington had, with no forewarning, suffered a massive heart attack that reduced the function of his heart by 60 to 70 percent.

Six months and seven bypass surgeries later, his heart was irreparable. A transplant was his only hope.

The time had come to leave Knoxville, Tenn. and head for Houston.

Arriving at St. Luke’s Hospital, as paramedics rolled him briskly through the glass emergency room doors on a gurney, Charles looked “like death,” recalls Eva, who took a commercial flight to meet her husband in Houston.

For 17 days, Charles languished in the ICU, in and out of consciousness. On Easter night, a donor heart became available. An 18-year-old male had lost his life in a motorcycle crash.

As Charles was being rolled into the operating room, a nurse asked, “Mr. Washington, what are you going to do with an 18-year-old heart?”

“I’m going to chase my wife around the room!” he proclaimed.

Unlike most transplant patients, Washington never experienced a rejection of his new heart. Five months after surgery, he was discharged and returned to work.

Only one setback occurred when the medicine Washington was taking to prevent rejection of his donor heart, damaged his kidneys. Six years ago, he underwent a kidney transplant.

“That was a breeze compared to a heart transplant ... no big thing,” he says.

Today, Washington is retired but his professional life continues. As a consultant to the Environmental Protection Agency, he offers expertise on toxic substances and legacy (indestructible) waste produced by weapons manufacturing facilities. He also is president of the National Association of Black Chemists and remains active in the Lockheed Martin Inventors Forum.

And while he won’t admit to chasing his wife around the room, he still calls her “Baby” and sends her flowers frequently.

He and Eva have three children, five grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Two years ago, they lost their youngest son, who died suddenly from a massive heart attack at age 38.

EDITOR’S NOTE – Since the inception of the transplant program at the Texas Heart Institute and St. Luke’s Episcopal Hospital in 1984, 184 patients have survived more than 10 years. Fifty-five have survived more than 15 years. O.H. “Bud” Frazier, M.D., chief of cardiopulmonary transplantation and director of surgical research at the Texas Heart Institute, and chief of transplant service at St. Luke’s Episcopal Hospital, has performed more than 900 heart transplants – more than any other surgeon in the world.

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©2006 Texas Medical Center

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