Maven's Memories: Recalling Two Isles, a Teenager and a Hospital Visit

Rachel Luscher's exceptionally tender -- and well-written --
story about 17-year-old heart transplant survivor Brooklyn Sizemore
sure touched a personal nerve in my system.
Or to put it another -- very realistic -- way; it touched my heart.
I was particularly moved reading about Brooklyn Sizemore becoming an Islanders fan while waiting for a life-saving heart transplant. I'll bet she could write a book about that.

Sizemore's tale scored a goal with me; it was a bitter-sweet bullseye; if you will. And here's why: It instantly reminded me of the Fischler Family's adventure with transplantation. The play-by-play follows:
A good 30 years ago, on a Monday morning, while I was covering a Devils' press conference -- announcing the hiring of coach Jacques Lemaire -- I received a phone call that stunned me to the very core.
It was my wife, Shirley. She was at St. Vincent's Hospital on 12th Street in Downtown Manhattan. She was in the infirmary's emergency room with our 14-year-old son, Simon.
"He collapsed in the ear doctor's office," she said, "and they got him here by ambulance. I'll get back to you when I know more."
Luckily, my friend Steve Viuker was with me so, at least, I had somebody to lean on while I awaited more of the horrid news. Shirley and I knew that Simon had not been well since returning from a year at boarding school, but we couldn't figure what ailed him.
She already had visited several doctors of various specialties trying to get a line on the illness. On this Monday they were in the waiting room of a Greenwich Village ear specialist.

During the 1992-93 season, Simon had been a freshman goaltender at Northwood Academy near Lake Placid. The last time I'd seen him was at Game Four of the unforgettable Islanders-Penguins series in the spring of 1993.
Nobody rooted harder for the Islanders than my Simon. And I don't mean maybe either. As it happened, that Game Four was the series-turner for Al Arbour's skaters.
They won it, 6-5, on a pair of shorthanded goals scored by Tom Fitzgerald, the very same general manager of the current New Jersey Devils. It was as wild as any game I'd ever seen. Ditto for Simon, Shirley and my kid's pal who was along for the game.
Naturally, on the drive back to The City, the Isles melodramatic win was all we could talk about. I was driving; Shirley was next to me and Simon was in the back with his pal from school.
We were chirping about Tommy Fitz's heroics and Glenn Healy out-goaling Tom Barrasso and maybe -- yeah, just maybe -- that our Isles could upset the Penguins who were skating hellbent for their third straight Stanley Cup.
Every so often our conversation was interrupted by something -- a disturbing noise -- that only a parent's radar could detect; and it was coming directly from my son's throat.
"I don't like the sound of that cough," I yelled to the back seat.
"Don't worry," Simon cautioned. "I'll be all right."
But he wasn't. The kid returned to Northwood, finished the semester and returned home in June.
At first I thought he was, in fact, alright. One Saturday we went to Riis Park and had ourselves a rousing game of paddle ball, did some swimming and went home. But one episode would emerge the next day that set off an S.O.S. in my head.
Simon and I biked a couple of miles over to my cousin Geraldine's apartment on West End Avenue, off 66th Street. We pedaled along the Hudson River waterfront and then had a familiar slope to climb that would take us out of the park. It was a slope we had pedaled dozens of times and it never had been a stamina challenge for either of us. But when we reached the crest, Simon got off his bike.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I gotta rest," said my son who always had been an indefatigable cyclist.
That should have been my clue; should have. The next weekend Shirley and I returned to our apartment on a Sunday afternoon. We stopped short after opening the door.
Simon was stretched out on the bathroom floor. He seemed not in pain and not even sure what the problem was; but since Shirley already had him to other doctors, this time it seemed to her like it might be an ear infection.
The next day -- while I was covering the Lemaire debut -- Simon collapsed in the ear doctor's office. Then to the emergency room -- very unpleasant -- and, after a day at St. Vincent's the medics agreed that his ailment was heart-related and too serious to handle.
Simon heart was in such bad shape that only a specialist hospital like uptown
Columbia-Presbyterian could deal with the treatment. Shirley went with Simon in a private ambulance while I waved good-bye -- and prayed -- from the curb at Seventh Avenue and 12th Street.
A day later Shirley and I met with Dr. Linda Addonizzio, the brilliant but low-key commander-in-chief of Columbia-Presbyterian's transplant section. She was comforting but blunt. "Simon will need a heart transplant," she said for openers.
We reacted in various stages of shock. Linda -- that's what we called her -- went on to explain how terribly far-gone Simon's heart had slipped. It was either the transplant or no Simon. There was no Plan B.
But for a transplant to happen, there has to be a donor heart and a ticker -- to put it simply -- that fits the patient. And that meant patience and fortitude for all concerned.
Alas, there was no timetable for delivery for the precious donor heart. It wasn't like the Long Island Rail Road message board. NEXT TRAIN TO MELVILLE, 9:20 P.M. The "new" heart would come when it would come.
If, in fact, it does come. And there were no guarantees on that either.
Day by day, in various ways, we all dug in, hoped and prayed in what became a scheduling ritual. Shirley arrived at the hospital at about 5 p.m. stayed in his room overnight and left around ten in the morning; which was my arrival time. This enabled me to walk our pet Airedale, Cleopatra, in the morning and Shirl to take the canine out for a stroll at night.
Although the 1992-93 NHL season now was in our rearview mirror, word got around that Simon was in deep trouble and, not surprisingly, the hockey community -- as only it can do -- rallied around our son.
If there was anything that could distract the lad from his fears and frustration, it was hockey thoughts, hockey talk and hockey visitors. And they came from all over. Whalers boss, Brian Burke, sent Sean Burke and Jim McKenzie down to New York from Hartford; Alexei Kasatonov arrived from New Jersey, via the Devils and, not surprisingly, the Rangers came through as well, thanks to publicist Barry Watkins. This was a double-dip -- of Mikes; Richter and Keenan unexpectedly walked in on a Saturday morning.
"They all were wonderful," Shirley later would say, "but Simon is an Islanders fan. He really appreciated the Rangers but, let's face it, they weren't from Uniondale."

Bill Torrey, Al Arbour and press agent Ginger Killian soon got the word about Simon They'd seen plenty of him since he was a five-year-old, romping around the Coliseum during my morning pre-game tv shoots for SportsChannel. What we didn't know is what they had in mind for him.
"It was late July when it happened," Simon recalled. "There was still no word when the heart was coming -- if it was coming -- and my condition was getting worse. I sure needed something to boost my spirits."
About two in the afternoon, there was a knock on his patient's door and before I could get up and open it, two men entered the room.
For these players, we didn't need a scorecard. It was Mick Vukota and Derek King, two of our favorite Islanders for different reasons. Mick for being the great ice cop and Derek for being one of Radar's best sharpshooters.
"I was totally stunned -- just very surprised -- when I saw who they were," Simon recalled. "It was so hard to believe; here were two of my favorite Islanders and right here in the room with me."
"We brought something for you," said Mick flashing his broadest of broad grins. "You might like this."
He pulled out an EA NHL Video Game on the Sega Genesis. Simon couldn't make up his mind whether he liked the game more than the visitors or whether the vice was versa.
They solved that puzzle by playing while Mick and Kinger flung funny lines from opposite sides of the hospital bed. Suffice to say that the kid was beside himself with joy.
"I guess I shouldn't have been surprised," Simon went on, "but I couldn't get over the fact that here were two of the most down to earth, nicest people you'd ever want to meet. And they were Islanders. What a bonus that was."
Just the other day, I decided to find out whether Mick had any recollection of the visit that buoyed my son's spirits when the odds were working against Simon. So I phoned him while he was vacationing with his family in New Hampshire.
"Of course I remember," Vukota said. "How could I forget it? Not only do I remember Simon and the visit, but you guys probably don't know what a hard time we had getting there. We would've been there an hour earlier but we got lost in a part of Brooklyn. We considered ourselves lucky to even find the hospital."
Mick couldn't recall who won the electronic game they played with Simon, but I sure never forgot how thrilled I was that they were just there; entranced by the interplay between the trio. What was most amusing was that the cheerful earful of chirping between the two players seemed fresh out of the Coliseum clubhouse.
"When we were told about Simon's situation, neither Mick nor I had second thoughts; we were coming," King told me, "and it was our pleasure to see him and lift his spirits.
"Better still, it's great that 30 years from then everything worked out for Simon," King added. "As for the drive out, don't tell this to Mick, but I was the one who should have been driving."
The hour went by in a hurry. Soon, the players had to take off and we urged them not to go back the same way they previously had taken through Brooklyn.
"I hope to see you guys again after Simon gets his new heart," I said while walking them to the elevator.
But, who knew? Simon's condition worsened in the next two weeks. The word was that in a day or two he'd have to be moved into intensive care; and then what?
July turned into August and still no sign of the donated heart. On August 5th two adult male heart recipients visited Simon after breakfast. It was a pleasant, buoyant half-half hour.
After lunch there was a knock on the door. It was a guy whose book -- Goal! My Life On Ice -- I had ghosted long ago. Rangers Hall of Famer Rod Gilbert strolled in and handed Simon a huge, way oversized stuffed bear wearing a Rangers jersey.
MAVEN'S MEMORIES
WRITTEN COVERAGE
Amazing Anders Kallur
Taming the Intimidators
Early Days of Islanders TV
The Amazing Nights of Wade Dubielewicz
Frans Nielsen, Sultan of Shootout
Shorthanded Swede Anders Kallur
Stan's Fans: The Amazing Polatoffs
Billy Smith's Origin Story
Maven's Haven
"I'm Rod Gilbert," my pal chuckled, "and this is Roger Bear."
The fun-loving Ranger then went out of character. He was into religion and just about prayed every possible way for Simon's recovery and then delivered a good-bye hug.
No more than two hours later we got the word; the donor heart had arrived.
On the night of August 5, 1993 the successful transplant was completed. And at 10 a.m. the next day, the hospital lobby was crowded with media types wanting to interview Shirley and I.
While on the one hand it was an exhilarating experience, on the other we coveted privacy and the ability to exhale. Still, it was important for the public to learn more about the wonders of transplantation and how our son's life was saved by a procedure that had been unheard of when I was Simon's age.
We also were forewarned that, medically, Simon was not out of the woods and that there would be potholes ahead; and there were. Long days of recovery eventually led to his discharge but there was a setback -- another return to Columbia-Presbyterian and a second recovery.
Looking backward, I can't help recall how encouraging the hockey community had been and how fortunate we were to meet another family -- also Islanders fans -- whose son was awaiting a heart.
His name is Josh Lentin and his parents, Michael and Karen, bonded with us. Josh has since endured two more heart transplants, is married, has child and works full-time in his dad's window supply company. Josh is an Islanders Season Ticket Member at UBS and the Lentin's remain in touch with our family.
Both Simon and Josh have remained as fervent Islanders fans as they were three decades ago. Likewise, it was gratifying to hook up once again with our Isles pals from 1993, Mick and Derek, who brought an afternoon of happiness -- and hope to an ailing teenager.
"Now that I think back," Simon concluded, "I can't get over what a great experience that was for me. It had been terribly frustrating, awaiting the new heart. Derek and Mick helped me get through that tough down time that I had been experiencing."
Then a pause, and a smile: "And I thank the Islanders for that!"