By John Zargarian

This is the story of my twin sister and of a lemon seed, a fragile hope planted in soil the
night she learned I had suffered heart failure. Miraculously, I survived that first attack. I
did not die in the emergency room that night.

But after that night came many complications. My doctors were honest: my heart was
failing fast, and time was no longer my ally. I was told my chances of living much longer
were nearing their limit. With little hope left, I agreed to be placed on the heart
transplant list.

Though I tried to stay active walking around our neighborhood block, doing light
exercises my heart continued to weaken. My doctor advised me to stay calm, to avoid
stress, and not to push myself. The truth was hard to accept, but I tried quietly carrying
it.

My twin sister lived far away in another state. She was caring for her own sick child, yet
she called me often. She worried constantly. Sometimes, I didn’t answer. Not because I
didn’t want to talk, but because I had no good news.

It was a lonely time. COVID-19 was still around, and emergency rooms were crowded. If
something happened, my chances of getting immediate help were uncertain. I stayed
home, silent and careful, my body weakening, my mind racing. Every night, I went to
bed not knowing if I’d wake up the next morning. I hid my pain from my wife and
children. I couldn’t bear to see worry in their eyes.

And in another home, in another state, my sister watched over a pot of soil on her
windowsill. In it, she had planted a lemon seed the night she nearly lost me. Every
morning she checked it, waiting for a sign for the first leaf to appear. With all her heart,
she believed it would mean good news. But day after day, the soil stayed bare.
Then came May.

I looked pale and weak. Something didn’t feel right. I told my wife I needed to go to the
ER. While speaking to her, a call came in from an unknown number. I ignored it at first,
thinking it was spam. But when it rang again, I picked up.

It was May 5th, 2021.

The voice on the other end said, “We’ve found a match. Please come to the hospital
within two hours.”

My family rushed me there. On the way, I asked my wife to call my sister, since she
hadn’t answered when I tried. She picked up later, and my wife gave her the news. That
night, my sister didn’t sleep. She waited and prayed for a miracle.

Early the next morning, my surgeon called with the news: the transplant was successful.
My wife called my sister, who burst into tears and said, “This morning, I saw the first tiny
leaf, it’s growing.” In that quiet moment, the lemon plant became her last leaf, a small
sign of hope that refused to fade…

Later, while recovering, I was allowed to order from the hospital kitchen. My first
breakfast was a burrito, and for lunch, I had tacos. My sister called and asked what I’d
eaten. I told her, and she paused for a moment. Then she laughed through her tears
and asked, “Is it possible … You have a Spanish heart?” I smiled. “Yes, maybe. After all,
I got it on Cinco de Mayo.”

A few weeks later, I learned more about the young man who had saved me. He was just
28 years old. A life full of promise, dreams not yet fulfilled. He passed away suddenly,
and in his death, he gave me life. A gift I can never repay.

He was someone’s son, friend, someone who had no idea his heart would beat again
inside a stranger. His leaf had fallen, but my branch began to bloom again through it.
Every beat of my heart is a quiet tribute to his.

I couldn’t believe that my healthy life had returned. For the first time in years, I stopped thinking about my heart. It was as if I had never been sick. I often say it felt like I hit the “jackpot.”

I want to express my deepest gratitude and honor every medical professional and nurse who worked with me and helped save my life at Keck Medicine of USC. I continue to visit my doctors at Keck, who have become not only my trusted healthcare providers but also my health partners.

Thank you for giving me my life back.