On three separate occasions during the last week in February 2000, I had chest pain. It became more intense each time and only went away after I rested. I was scared, but tried to ignore it until my daughter Annie, 17 at the time, insisted I see a doctor.

An office exam by our family doctor, Herbert Heym, didn't show anything, but he ordered a stress test. His office manager, the late Judy Booge McRae, tried to make an appointment at Papastavros on Augustine Cut-off, but they didn't have immediate openings. She got me on the schedule at the Pike Creek clinic for the next day.

I wouldn't be here if she hadn't done that, and I was devastated to learn in 2003 that she and her husband had been killed in an auto accident while returning from Annapolis, Md.

Driving to the stress test that Thursday, I was thinking about the start of the high school basketball tournaments. I was a little worried, but only wanted to get through the stress test and go cover the tournament and then go to spring training to cover the Blue Rocks. I was really excited about that because it was the first time the paper had let me go.

Marshall kept reassuring me that help was on the way. And when the emergency medical technicians arrived, I remember Marshall yelling at them to skip their routine and get me to the hospital - now.

"If Erik Marshall wasn't with you, you would probably be dead," Kathleen McNicholas, the assistant chief of cardiac surgery at Christiana, told me recently.

But I don't remember him being in the ambulance. I do remember begging the EMT in the ambulance to keep me alive. I asked him over and over again to please tell my wife Mary Anne and my daughters Elizabeth and Annie how much I loved them.

Marshall had called ahead and asked the hospital to try to clear the cath lab. He knew I would need a doctor to do angioplasty, or snake a tube up my blood vessels and clear a path for the blood and oxygen my heart so desperately needed.

"If somebody was doing a procedure in the cath lab when you came in, nothing could have been done," says McNicholas. "You were in cardiogenic shock. You had massive heart failure. You probably should have been dead. There was no reason to survive this."

Eight emergency bypass surgeries by McNicholas followed. She pulled 8 veins out of my legs and hooked them to my heart, so they bypassed the blocked parts of the vessels and kept blood flowing.

Mary Anne and Annie were following the ambulance in a car driven by family friend Sue Ogden. Sue hit the gas pedal, caught the ambulance and led it back to I-95 north.

When I started to come out of the fog, nothing seemed real. I was thrilled to be alive, but I was depressed. "Where am I and what happened?" kept running through my mind. Machines were keeping me alive.

I was transferred to another floor and met Mary, the nurse I feel to this day was sent from heaven to be with me. She was so good at reassuring that it would be OK.

Soon after, Kevin Noonan, a friend and colleague from The News Journal, stopped in. He spent most of his visit playing nurse, giving me ice to suck on and a fresh wet towel to put on my forehead. I was still running a fever, and that wet towel was so refreshing.

Kevin probably has no idea how important he was to me that day. His presence gave me a little more confidence and a feeling of normalcy. That hour or two he spent in my room was a turning point in my struggle to face reality.

I started to realize how important my life was. People cared what happened to me. I knew then I had to fight to change my attitude and stop feeling sorry for myself.

I had several episodes of pulmonary edema, an abnormal accumulation of fluid in cells that affects the lungs and heart. You can't breathe when that happens. On two occasions I had to have a tube put in my throat so I could breathe.

Once was on a Friday evening in late March. My wife, daughter Elizabeth, my sisters Pat Dougherty and Jane Biehn and brother-in-law Bill Biehn, were visiting. But I had been drinking too many fluids that day , and in a matter of 10 to 15 minutes, I went from breathing normally to gasping for breath. I began to panic.

As the doctor on call began to help me, I remember Mary standing at the foot of the bed, saying, "Jack, it will be OK. Just try to calm down. Relax and breathe. It will be OK." But I couldn't calm down.

When the crisis was over, I could sense how upset my family was. I wanted to reassure them, but I couldn't talk. I couldn't ease the tension and pain they were feeling.

But I also remember a feeling of peace and spiritual comfort came to me that night when Father Thomas Curran, a friend and the former president of Salesianum School, came to visit. I thought at first that my wife had asked him to come, but he came on his own. He came when I needed a priest so much. To me, it was a small miracle.

My condition stabilized and I was transferred to another floor for extensive physical rehabilitation. I was starting all over again, learning to walk, dress myself, shower and shave.

At first I didn't seem to make any progress. I would go to rehab twice a day and struggle. My blood pressure was often too low and I tired easily. It took all my energy to do anything.

I eventually found myself hospitalized again at Penn. Almost from the moment I went back in, I prayed I would be well enough by early May to attend Elizabeth's graduation from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia.

Doctors said I might be able to leave for a few hours -- as long as my blood work was good. I was literally lying on the bed with my good clothes and tie on while the blood was being drawn so the doctors could decide.

The graduation was set for 10 a.m., and I was released a little after 9. My emotions were running high when Elizabeth walked up to accept her diploma. As she turned and walked back to her seat, I stood up. She paused and waved back to me.

My next big challenge came a few weeks later when Annie graduated from St. Mark's. There were no last-minute blood tests and Mary Anne, Elizabeth and I got an early start from home.

Father Greg Corrigan, the school's religious adviser, mentioned Annie and how several seniors formed a prayer group to pray for family members and other intentions. He mentioned how the students and the prayers were there for Annie and me on a regular basis those past two months. Annie hadn't said too much during my illness, but I knew it had taken a toll on her, mentally and physically.

It seemed like every time I was released from the hospital I felt pretty decent. Then I would slowly but surely start going back downhill. My daily walks for physical therapy took all my energy to complete.

I always seemed to feel nauseous. I didn't have much desire to eat solid food. I tried to get by on water, juices and diet soda. However, I still had to keep a close eye on my fluid and sodium intake. I didn't want that tube stuck down my throat again.

I made one short trip back to Penn in late June. I felt lousy. But they let me out long enough to go to the Blue-Gold All-Star Football Game in Dover four days later. Normally, I would have been covering it.

I made some progress throughout July before things started to change early in August. I knew I might be in trouble when I had to stop my rehab workouts at Christiana Care because I felt so bad. I tried to hide it, but Mary Anne sensed what was happening.

Even before Mary Anne was able to tell me, she told everyone around her that I would not die and I would "definitely" recover. Even when things were at their worst, Mary Anne's faith never wavered. She was the rock I built my recovery around.

That's not to say she didn't suffer, both mentally and physically, with the strain of being a full-time special-education teacher, mother and wife. She was in school for eight to 10 hours, then drove to Philadelphia to be with me, talk with doctors and nurses and face the growing reality that a heart transplant was the only way her husband could survive.

All the attention was focused on me, but Mary Anne put up a good face and tried to cope. I knew she needed comfort, but I couldn't seem to give it to her. She didn't want to upset me, and I learned much later that she would break down and cry some nights after my daughter Annie had usually gone to bed. After returning phone calls to family and friends she would let her feelings out, sitting at the kitchen table with her buddy Norman, my daughter's lovable golden retriever, at her side.

I have tried to tell my wife how much she meant to me just getting through each day back then. I was able to lean on her, complain to her, laugh and cry with her. And, boy, I did a lot of crying in those months leading up to my heart transplant.

This wimpy Irishman leaned and leaned on my Polish princess, but her shoulder never weakened. Our love for each other strengthened and enabled us to handle the pain, frustrations, and emotional roller coaster that affected us for months and even years to come.

I went back into the hospital Aug. 9. Dr. Susan Brozena, my lead cardiac doctor, was completely honest, as usual. After some tests, she told me and Mary Anne that it was the third strike for my heart. I needed a transplant.

But my low blood pressure and the readings on my heart after two different biopsies kept me hospitalized. In early September, Brozena announced that I would have to stay at HUP until a heart match became available.

I would end up being in the hospital from Aug. 9 until Oct. 14. I was able to get myself on a regular daily schedule. After the 6 a.m. stop by the nurse to draw blood, I would drift back to sleep until breakfast arrived around 7:45.

Daily walks through the halls were recommended, and great mental therapy. I would visit other patients, talk with nurses, nurse assistants and other support staff. I went everywhere with my IV pole, which had the miracle drug milrinone flowing into me. It became my buddy.

I actually held the job of mayor on my floor for a few weeks. It was an honor when the nurses asked me to do it. You needed some quality hospital time to earn that post.

With the mayor's position came responsibility. I was supposed to coordinate our special meals one night each week. We could have pizza, hoagies, burgers or fish. I ordered extra, so the nurses and support staff could join us. I guess it was low-fat, but all we knew is that the doctors and nurses said it was OK to indulge, and we looked forward to it.

I might have been sick, but I continued to read the sports pages each day and keep up with my three favorite football teams, Salesianum, Notre Dame and the Eagles.

On one day, my buddies Al Ademski, Frank Dauphin and Bobby Clark, and my daughter Elizabeth were there as the ND game began. I got pretty excited over a couple of plays. Then my doctor walked in, checked the monitor above my bed and quietly said, "If you don't calm down, the TV is going off." I was very calm the rest of the afternoon.

I was in my room alone on a Saturday in the middle of September waiting for dinner when this woman walks in and says, "Jack Ireland?" and I just said, "Dr. McNicholas."

By then, not a day went by that I didn't try to imagine what the transplant surgery will be like. I tried to think good things, but I would always wonder, "What if I don't survive?" Then I would try to chase that thought away.

Monday, Sept. 25, started out as usual. After breakfast, I went for a walk. I noticed Patricia Curry Stutman and Donna Chojnowski, two transplant coordinator nurses, standing nearby. I waved and continued. Then I heard my name called. They were right behind me.

My doctors and nurses had been preparing me for this moment, but milrinone makes you feel great. I knew it was supposed to be temporary, but maybe I could take it forever.

I called Mary Anne at the school where she taught in Elsmere to give her the news. She was in my room within the hour. Elizabeth was working in Philadelphia and was there in moments.

Dr. Rohinto Morris came over to introduce himself. Morris, my hero of heroes, is the surgical director of Heart Transplantation and Mechanical Assist programs at HUP.

He warned me that there was always a chance that the heart would not be a perfect match and the surgery could be postponed. I had only known this man for about 60 seconds, but I was perfectly at ease. He seemed bigger than life to me. Maybe it was the drugs, but I wasn't afraid anymore.

Waking up in recovery, I didn't have a clue where I was. I could see two nurses. I asked them, "Did we start yet?" One of them sort of laughed and said, "Mr. Ireland, you are out of surgery and have a new heart."

Two of my Salesianum high school priests -- the Rev. Robert Kenney and the Rev. Robert Ashenbrenner -- visited me early, and often and gave me great spiritual comfort.

In fact, the biggest problem and pain I had those first few days after the transplant was discomfort in my stomach from a drainage tube. Once that tube was removed, I felt 200 percent better.

The biggest fear for a transplant patient is rejection, which doctors can somewhat control with drugs. I was lucky; I was able to avoid any serious rejection for six years. Today, I spend about $125 to $150 a month on 14 medications.

There were two patients -- a man and a woman -- I knew at HUP who were not so fortunate. Why them and not me? That's something only God can explain, I guess.

One of the hardest things for me to grasp was knowing someone had to die for me to live. The more I thought about it, the more upset I would become. A hospital counselor and my doctors told me I couldn't feel guilty about that. Donors made the choice while they were living to be a donor.

But facts are facts. I am living with another man's heart. Because he willingly chose to sign his name as an organ donor, I am alive and well. I know it was a man -- who I have nicknamed "Mr. Heart" -- because I got a letter from his wife. They had three boys. He was a great cook, she said.

I want it known that there were many brilliant doctors and nurses who cared for me and have given me a new life. But I also want it known that without my faith in God, I don't know how I would have made it.

I hope anyone with heart, kidney, liver or other serious health problems will feel there is a chance for a better life. I know it can be so hard -- but please take hold and never let go.

Please don't take life, or good health, for granted. It is a gift from God. Without it I found out how difficult walking to the bathroom, putting on your shoes or just eating can be.

The Gift of Life for Philadelphia, southeastern Pennsylvania, Delaware and southern New Jersey is a caring and loving organization. All they want to do is help people in need and increase the awareness of organ donations and transplants. For more, call (800) DONORS-1 or go to www.donors1.org .

In you live in Delaware, you can go online right now and sign up as an organ donor through the Delaware Motor Vehicles Department at www.donatelife-de.org . You may also stop in any motor vehicle department office and sign up. Remember to let your family, friends and physicians know of your wishes.

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