“If you needed a transplant and were willing to accept a donor organ, how would you feel if you never made an effort to sign your donor card and inform your family yourself?”

We'd just made it to the top of Mt. Fuji in Japan, when Craig handed me a pouch containing my donor's ashes. It was quite a surprise. He'd been in touch with the donor's daughter to ask if she had a wish she'd like us to make for her. We always made wishes once we reached a mountain top. She asked us to release the ashes. I felt the moment's gravity. But once I let the ashes go, it was so uplifting, as if she was free and I was free to accept my heart as my own.

From an interview with Nancy J. White, Living Reporter, The Toronto Star, April 1, 2008

I have climbed numerous mountains around the world, including the South American Andes in Cajon de Arenales, Argentina, the Matterhorn Zermatt, Switzerland, Mount Fuji, Japan, Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa, Mount Aspiring, New Zealand, and Mount Whitney, El Capitan, and Half Dome in California. Author of The Climb of My Life: Scaling Mountains with a Borrowed Heart. Founding partner of HydraCoach, Inc. , with husband, Craig.

Speaking

Kelly Perkins has had the pleasure of recounting her story in person to varying audiences throughout the world, including medical, corporate and adventure enthusiasts. From the United States to Europe, she has been honored to impart lessons she has learned along her journey.

Accompanied by inspiring slides, music, video and homespun humor, Kelly takes pride in providing an entertaining and motivating experience for all those who venture out to hear her share her unique story live.

For information on how to contact Kelly for your next speaking event send an email to info@theclimbofmylife.com

• The Climb of My Life: Scaling Mountains with a Borrowed Heart
• Taking heart on the highest mountains 4/1/08
• Kelly Perkins From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
• UCLA Medical Center
• HydraCoach, Inc.

The Climb of My Life: Scaling Mountains with a Borrowed Heart by Kelly Perkins

Kelly Perkins was only 30 years old when she learned she needed a heart transplant. For many people, that would mean the end of their old lifestyles, but Kelly accepted the challenge and became the first heart transplant patient to reach the summit of some of the world's tallest and most recognizable peaks. This inspirational tale of hope and accomplishment is something everyone can find personal meaning in. The Climb of My Life tells the story of Kelly's transplant, recovery, and ascents up such mountains as Mt. Kilimanjaro-all on a borrowed heart.

For individual book orders visit:theclimbofmylife.com, Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com and BooksaMillion.com.

For a First-Edition Signed Copy Click Here.

For bulk orders in excess of 50 books, please email Lita Orner at lorner@rowman.com

Excerpt from THE CLIMB OF MY LIFE     
Romance in the hospital: (caregiver extraordinare!)

During extended hospital stays, Craig and I sought any and every ounce of normalcy.  Hey, I wasn’t dead yet!  One night, I was feeling particularly frisky and put Craig up to an unusual challenge — a romantic tryst in my hospital bed. During the day, the doctors had been testing new medications to stabilize my heart, hoping they could find one I could tolerate, but none were successful.  During such testing sessions, if I weren’t stable on any of the drugs, they would hook me up to an IV of Lidocaine, a drip medication that usually proved successful.  (Since it wasn’t available in pill form, I couldn’t be discharged on it.)  Also, if I stayed on the Lidocaine for any significant length of time, the toxicity would build up in my system and cause some unusual side effects.  Among them was severe queasiness, augmented by an ill feeling comparable to blind drunkenness and disturbing hallucinations. On this particular occasion, midnight was approaching, I’d been on the drip most of the day and the intensity of my desire began to rapidly escalate. I needed to be with Craig as desperately as I needed my next breath. Ever since my first hospital visit, my sexual appetite had all but disappeared. So, Craig was just as excited by my unexpected arousal. Still, I was hooked up to a drip IV and had multiple wires connecting me to a heart rate monitor — not exactly the standard paraphernalia for a romantic interlude. 

No worries! Craig, being the accommodating guy he is, was willing to oblige.  Problem was, he didn’t want me to go into a fast or unsafe rhythm. So, he decided to delicately explain the situation to one of the nurses.  Her job was to view the heart rate monitors from the nurses’ station, reporting and addressing any unusually rapid patterns. If, of course, Craig was, shall we say at the top of his game, the beats should be very rapid; but the rapid beats would signal the alarms and alert the nurses, who would be duty-bound to interrupt. Faced with so unusual a request, she decided it was necessary to consult the head nurse. Knowing we were a young couple who had been cooped up in a hospital for some time, the head nurse was sympathetic to our request.  However, she too was concerned over the potential for problem rhythms, so decided it was necessary to contact the on-call doctor.  As our request traveled up the chain of hospital command, I was becoming more and more anxious, as was Craig, who worried my intense desire would abate. Finally, a nod of approval was received from on high.

The door, adorned with a strict “do not disturb” notice, closed behind us. An audience gathered around the monitor outside.

With Craig and I poised for action, he said he felt like he was walking onto a stage. In a way, he was. A good performance could bring an army of doctors and nurses rushing in to save my life. A bad performance, and Craig would be the one dying that night. The pressure was intense.  We started off slowly, exercising extreme caution. Craig keeping a close eye on the heart rate monitor above the bed. Naturally, as things started to heat up, so did my heart.

The next morning, there were two delightful developments. First, the doctor didn’t stop by for his routine visit.  Later, we realized that the “do not disturb” sign was still up and, embarrassingly enough, the kindly doctor had been fully briefed about our midnight tryst.

Second, everyone treated Craig like a superstar.

A test of strength – mental and physical
modified excerpt from The Climb of My Life, Scaling Mountains with a Borrowed Heart.

On our final day of training for the Matterhorn, my heart was tested as never before. It was  4:30 in the morning when our group set out to ascend and traverse the Weissmies, the 13,199’ peak that ends with a breathtaking descent down the Trift Glacier. It proved to be an optimal training spot for the Matterhorn, igniting the critical acclimatization process, challenging all our technical skills and testing our ability to endure a long, hard day. Jean, our mountain guide, was relentless about moving fast, constantly reminding us that speed would ultimately determine our success. 

The trail began gradually but quickly grew increasingly steep. After several hours of hiking, the terrain turned even more vertical. Concurrently, we were coping with heightened exposure and loose rocks. I focused on my labored breath, until the burn in my legs commanded my full attention.  I wanted to stop and rest, but knew I couldn’t. Because I was short-roped between Jean and Craig, they would feel a tug each time I paused, and I worried that even a momentary time-out would spark Jean’s ire. I was right.

He snapped, “What are you doing?” 

Not wanting to tell him I felt tired, I said, “I’m just looking at the view.”

“Well, don’t look, climb!” he growled. 

Even though I was rapidly approaching my threshold, I remained determined to power through the fatigue. Fortunately, most of the vertical ascent was behind us and I didn’t have that much further to climb before the arduous grade leveled off.  I would just have to keep moving. Ahead of us I spied a small group of climbers who had ascended the peak from the other side. Toasting one another with large cans of German ale, they were obviously reveling in the fact that they’d conquered the great Weissmies.  Their enthusiasm gave me the incentive I needed. A welcome burst of reserve energy pushed me forward.

Minutes later, we too had our place on the top.  We raised our ice axes in victory, sharing the mountaineering version of a “high-five” by knocking our steel-headed picks together. While the top was just the halfway point, Jean appeared to be pleased with our performance thus far. I equated his contentedness as approval of our effort, or specifically mine, given the fact that I made reasonable time. After rewarding myself with the breathtaking view and a carefully calculated allotment of peanut M&M’s, it was time to make our way down the Trift Glacier, a forty-degree, crevasse-laden monster that took up nearly the entire backside of the mountain. 

The previous evening, concerned about the unseasonably warm weather and threat of an avalanche, Jean had pondered if this was too risky a path for our hike out. To better assess the conditions, he consulted with a local network of mountain guides.  Their word was that it still appeared to be in decent shape. So, after discussing it with us, he decided it was the route he wanted us to descend. We started working our way down, again moving at a fast clip and short-roped together, when we suddenly noticed climber “gridlock” in an area up ahead.  We waited as Jean untied himself and went to evaluate the situation. When he rejoined our group, it soon became clear he was not happy with what he’d found. “This mountain is not in good shape,” he sternly reported. “It looks like a critical ice bridge has collapsed and the climbers below have been forced to come up with an alternate passage. I don’t know what we are going to do until I see it.”

I thought to myself, “What if the revised route isn’t good enough either?” If it weren’t safe, we’d have to retrace seven hours of difficult climbing back to the hut. At this hour of the day, we wouldn’t even arrive at our original starting point until well after the sun had set. The thought of this was daunting. Could my heart endure the long trek back? What if some of the towering seracs (ice cliffs) we were about to descend gave way like the ice bridge ahead? Neither proposition looked very favorable.

Jean kept moving, his face drawn and tense in the harsh sunlight.  I heard him mumble, “We have to get beyond this.” He then loudly commanded, “Let’s move – and fast.”

It was clear that Jean was stressed, as rapidly changing conditions were increasing the potential danger of what lay ahead. He pressed us to keep moving. Suddenly, looming before us was our first major obstacle, a large serac that resembled a mammoth iceberg.

We figured a mountain rescue team must have already been there, because a fifteen-foot aluminum ladder had been erected straight up the ice face, which angled over a deep crevasse.  Jean called out, “It looks pretty good.  Tim, you and Michael go first and lead the way.”

I stood at the top and watched Tim disappear as he went over the edge. Just as I was cherishing that fact that I was standing on what seemed solid ice, a disturbing cracking sound rumbled below our feet.  Craig looked at Michael, who murmured, “That’s not good.” 

From a guy who had climbed Mt. Everest on three separate occasions, his words were quite alarming. For me, just seeing the anxious look on Jean’s face was enough to make my stomach drop. 

As Tim made his way down the drop-off, Jean looked my way and said,  “You and Craig wait.” With his camera rolling, Michael followed Tim. He wanted to be sure to capture myprecarious descent.

“Stop filming!” Jean brusquely reprimanded him.

Michael knew the danger, but he also knew a “Kodak moment.”  Having professionally filmed many high adventure expeditions around the world, Michael was clearly irritated by Jean’s harsh directive, but nevertheless put his camera away.  Like the rest of us, Michael recognized and respected Jean’s leadership role and his strict emphasis on safety. The ice was melting, snow and rocks were falling. It wasn’t the time or place for taking pictures.

I’m not good at waiting under such circumstances. My fear grows in direct proportion to the amount of time I’m left to sit and ponder. As I approached the edge, I looked down, but only for a glance, to see the ladder. I didn’t want to see the depth of the crevasse. Craig went ahead of me, braving inching his way down, slowly run by rung. Once he got to the bottom and was safely over the abyss, he shouted, “You’ll do great.  Just go slow.” 

I took a deep breath, turned toward Jean, and started my way down, timidly negotiating the narrow steps in my steel spiked crampons. All I could focus on was the next rung. Moving at a snail’s pace, I finally made my way down to the landing. Upon reaching the bottom I said to myself, “Shit, and this is isn’t even the collapsed ice bridge!” 

I tried to calm myself by thinking about the combined years of mountain experience that Jean, Michael, and Tim had between them.  They had experience, sound judgment and all the survival and rescue skills necessary to get us through this. The mere fact that they were stronger than me provided comfort.  My trust in them was put to the test when it came time to cross the fallen ice bridge. They told me the only way to get beyond it was to jump!  It sounded so simple until I looked into the gaping crack. My heart may not be connected to my brain by nerves, but glancing into this void seemed to prove otherwise. I’m sure my heart was fully in tune with my anxiety as I felt an adrenaline rush surge through my body. Tim and Michael leapt first, followed by Craig.  Craig’s nearly a foot taller than me, and he barely made it! He lunged forward and soared to the other side. Immediately he turned to Jean and said, “There is no way Kelly can make it across this.” As I had to go next, this was not a good thing to hear; yet there was no turning back. I was roped to Jean on one side of the crevasse, with Craig, Tim, and Michael on the other when Jean yelled to me, “Go!”

Just then, the receiving team yanked the rope.  I pulled a Peter Pan type move, stretching my arms outward like wings, and using whatever flexibility I had to extend my legs as far as they could reach. During the brief moments that I flew through the air, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. For a split second, I wondered if it might be the only part of me to make it to the other side! With little room to spare, I was able to slam my ice ax into the frozen wall that loomed in front of me, and then dig my crampons into the thin edge that served as the platform against the glacial mass. I cheered, “I made it!” I glanced over at Craig just in time to see a wide grin of relief fill his face.

Once we’d regrouped, Jean insisted we all rope up together to descend the next leg of the slope. Until then, Craig and I were on a short rope with Jean, while Michael and Tim were short-roped together as a separate team. The angle of the terrain pointed sharply downward causing Jean to bark out a new set of instructions. Tim responded by setting an ice screw for added protection and belayed us off of the final slippery pitch.

As the glacier gradually leveled off, our focus shifted to the intermittent crevasses that threaded the lower terrain. I looked out ahead, and noticed a significant change in the snowfield. The white velvet blanket of untouched snow that we saw above had vanished and become uneven and discolored. I was spooked, imagining with every step that the temperamental glacier was thinning and would give way at any moment. I envisioned myself breaking through the ice and landing in a freezing pool of water that would instantly petrify my blood. I was very motivated to get off the mountain!

We were extremely relieved when we reached the bottom and were away from the ice and rock fall line. I looked back at what we had just descended, thankful to have completed the trek without incident. Michael said, “That was every bit as tricky and treacherous as the Khumbu icefalls on Everest.” The Trift Glacier stood tall, like a looming tsunami rearing up to engulf those who ventured near. Far above, I could still make out climbers who were working their way down. With the cracking ice still echoing in my ears, I was glad to once again have solid dirt under my feet.

Renewal

In 1988, just a year after we were married, we found ourselves breathless at the top of Mt. St. Helen’s in Washington. That tumultuous climb left an indelible impression on us as, ironically, it soon paralleled our lives. The trail had just opened, making us two of the first recreational hikers to be allowed up to the rim of the volcano since its eruption eight years earlier, in 1980. The mountain was desolate, and at certain times we were knee-deep in ash as soft as powder. The rim overlooked Spirit Lake, and the water below was littered with huge trees that had blown off the mountain. From where we stood, the massive timbers looked like toothpicks floating atop the lake. Devastation was everywhere, and we felt the solemn power of nature all around us. Awestruck, I couldn't help but think of how everything had been reduced to ash, but out of the ashes would come new life. The mountain was merely acting out its part in a long history of cyclical changes. Releasing its core with such great force, the mountain is sharing riches that come from within — new soil, minerals and life. Upon returning to the outer edges of the blast zone, I looked down with greater awareness and spotted a small patch of green emerging from the ash.  Life was returning to the mountain. Slowly it would regain what was lost and perhaps be a little richer and healthier than before. Little did we know that the same sense of loss and renewal would soon echo within my own life.

Straight through the Heart, El Capitan, Yosemite Valley, CA

Most climbing routes seem similar to road maps with one distinct difference; roads usually follow the path of least resistance, while routes up the face of El Cap do not.  However, just as a roadmap twists and turns, so do many of the lines that ascend a wall.  The line climbed is not always straight, meaning there are sometimes areas that need to be traversed.  Because we wanted to climb through “the heart,” we modified our route, which forced us to make a lateral transition toward the Muir wall.  Facing this section, the famous climber/writer Greg Child’s words echoed in my head, “The only thing more abstract than climbing up a wall is to traverse it from one side to the other.”  I moved slowly, a bit timid, feeling ever so vulnerable. Even with protection, I knew if I fell, I could take a big swing and possibly even slam into the wall, which could cause as much damage as hitting the ground. My mental pictures became much too vivid and my imagination took flight. I could just visualize skin, bones… and a heart, dangling like a rag doll 1,000’ up a wall on a rope the width of a forefinger. While this pendulum maneuver may create a cool visual effect, it was not what I needed replaying in my head. Fearful that my trepidation would paralyze me, I chased the “horror” show out of my mind.   Coldly efficient, I focused exclusively on my skills. To my surprise, calmness ensued. Once I got beyond the traverse and the freaky, exposed moves, my newfound composure thrilled me. I had learned to trust the system.

Trust. Looking back, I had to put trust in the medical system — the doctors, equipment and medications. It was the same with climbing. I put my trust in the guides, the gear and the ropes. My medical history also provided tools for coping with potentially risky exposure.  Furthermore, my body has become accustomed to change and readily adapts.  Just as my body had adjusted to a constant barrage of medications, my eyes had adjusted to living on the vertical plane. Our systems are remarkably talented at coping, compensating and self-adjusting, no matter what madness we impose on them.