. . . and this little piggy may save a human life.

If you’re at all squeamish, have a problem with the thought of blood or internal organs, are a lifetime member of PETA, or are strictly vegetarian, you may want to skip this next paragraph. But I find it medically fascinating.

I’ve just read about a potentially history-making procedure, still in the research stage, that would enable a person with sudden liver failure to be temporarily kept functioning by being attached to a genetically-edited pig’s liver in a dialysis-like treatment, while awaiting a suitable transplant. The process would filter the person’s blood, doing the work of their own liver so the organ could rest and possibly heal itself. [Lauran Neergaard, ABC News, April 15, 2025.]

(Livers are famously very good at repairing and regenerating themselves. Too bad more of our organs can’t do that.)

Okay, enough detail. Those of you with sensitive natures may resume reading now.

*. *. *

Aside from the exciting medical implications of such a procedure, the article caught my attention because of my own past experience with pig parts.

No, not pork chops or BLTs. I’m talking about surgical tissue. To clarify:

Some 25 or 30 years ago, I was experiencing pain in my right shoulder, which my orthopedic surgeon diagnosed as a torn rotator cuff. It was disabling enough that I agreed to schedule surgery, and I came through it without complication.

After a couple of days in the hospital, and several more days of recuperating at home, I had an appointment for a follow-up with my surgeon at his office. Being one of Washington, D.C.’s leading orthopedists, he also taught at a local medical school, and frequently had students in his office to observe as part of their studies. On the occasion of my visit, there was a young male student present who appeared very much in awe of his professor.

I, on the other hand, knew my doctor very well . . . which meant that I was aware, not only of his surgical skills, but also of his wicked sense of humor, and I was prepared to hear just about anything from him at any time.

As he checked the results of his artistry on my shoulder, he simultaneously explained the procedure to his student, and described how — once he had cut into my arm — he had found the rotator cuff to be so badly torn as to be beyond repair without the use of extraneous tissue. And at the time, there was a new procedure — approved, but still considered somewhat experimental — using porcine tissue: the tissue of a pig. And there just happened to be some available at that hospital at that precise time.

Listening to him, I thought, “What fun! I’m a medical guinea pig.” (Pun intended.)

But then the doctor segued into a tale of dinner at his home the very night following my surgery . . . which happened to have been the first night of Passover. His family were gathered for the Seder, and somehow the conversation turned to the unusual procedure that he had just performed. As he spoke, he noticed his college-student son frowning in puzzlement, and asked what was wrong . . . whereupon the son said:

“Dad, I have an ethical question. Please explain to me how you could transplant the tissue of a pig into the body of a Jewish woman without her permission — and on the eve of Passover, no less??!!!”

At that point in the story, I happened to glance at the young medical student, whose eyes had widened in what appeared to be abject fear. He was obviously expecting me to explode in anger . . . or collapse in distress, at the very least.

He clearly had never met me, and made the mistake of assuming I was a “normal” person. So he stared in disbelief as I calmly asked my doctor what he had said to his son, and received the following reply:

“I told him that I couldn’t very well wake you in the middle of surgery to ask your permission. And besides, I said, you don’t know this woman. She would have told me that that was my job, not hers, and to just get on with it.”

And he was right. But the student was sure I was some sort of madwoman when, instead of going postal on the doctor, I burst out laughing and announced that hereafter my right shoulder would have its own name — “Babe” — in honor of one of my daughter’s favorite childhood story books.

And so it came to be. I immediately went on a search for the perfect little pig pin, which I proudly wore on the right shoulder of my jackets for many years thereafter . . . and, of course, whenever I had occasion to visit my orthopedist.

*. *. *

So, while some of you may think of pigs as dirty, messy, grunty, swill-eating creatures, I will always have a special place for them in my heart . . . and my right shoulder.

And a nice, neat scar to prove it.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/17/25