I always wondered what it would be like to save a life. In my mind, it was always a stranger I would save - by giving CPR, doing the Heimlich, or pulling someone out of deep water (can you tell I used to be a lifeguard?). Never did I think the person I would save would be the person who gave me life and never could I have imagined the gratification in doing so.

In December 2005, my Mom went into liver failure due to an auto immune disease. The doctors put her on the list to receive a transplant from a cadaver, but gave her the dreaded news that she would likely die waiting. They urged her to consider the living liver donation process, where they remove 60% of a healthy donor's liver for the transplant. The liver regenerates itself, allowing both adults to survive. At the time, this surgery had been done roughly 1,000 times in the US since they began less than 10 years earlier.

Without hesitation, though I can't say without fear, I wanted to do this for my Mom. Being compared to her is my ultimate compliment. Her smile and personality light up a room. She is the most interested & interesting, determined, confident, caring and generous person I know. Here we are over 25 years ago. I couldn't image life without her. I was not ready to lose my Mom.

Initially, my Mom wouldn't even discuss the idea of living donation with me. At the time, it frustrated me to no end, but now I can see her perspective.>Losing a child has to be the most tragic and unnatural thing a parent can face. The donor death rate was anywhere from 1 in 200 to 1 in 500. It took about a month, but eventually pressure by my family and me, as well as her own will to live, gave her the courage to let me begin the testing process.

Today marks the one year anniversary of our surgery. My family was together last week and we celebrated the miracle that will forever touch our lives. My Mom's health is close to perfect. I watched in elation as she kicked off her shoes at my cousin's wedding and took to the dance floor with the vigor of someone half her age. And from the smile beaming across her face, you could tell she appreciated that moment more than anyone in the room.

In many respects, I feel we are the most fortunate family on Earth. Most people are helpless when a loved one is seriously ill. Because of modern medicine including some incredibly talented surgeons, we were not. Here is a picture of Team Doyle (my Dad, Mom, me and sisters Catherine and Susan) taken last week. We couldn't have gotten through this without the love and support of each other.

What my Mom and I share now goes beyond the mother-daughter bond. During our 2 month recovery, we felt so responsible for one another's health that we could literally feel each other's pain. 2 nights after surgery when my epidural suddenly stopped administering, leaving me without anesthetic for half hour, we both cried. And, I think her agony was worse than mine as she had to watch me in pain. Though the recovery often felt slow (I occasionally wondered if I would always need to sleep 18 hours a day), the resilience of the human body truly astounds me. I wasn't able to stand the first time the nurses tried to get me out of bed.Four weeks later I got myself on a treadmill and was able to walk, albeit for just one 35-minute mile. And now the only physical ramification I have from the surgery is a scar on my abdomen, which I wear with pride.

As I went through rounds of testing to be approved as a donor, I spoke to many people at the hospital about what was ahead. They prepared me for the pain and the risk but nobody can adequately prepare you for the emotional gains. The feeling is in many ways indescribable. It is like a perpetual sense of peace, awe, happiness and confidence that is as strong today as it was on this day last year. A few days after surgery, my Mom jumped out of bed (she was on steroids-I did nothing so energetic for a while), exclaiming that she felt she had been given a second chance at life. That may forever be the single best moment of my life.

Happy Anniversary Mom! What I have given will always pale in comparison to what I have received from you and from this experience.

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