I Really Give a Whitt About This Guy; I’m Hoping That You Will, Too

You need to know up front that this eventually will become a shameless plea for GoFundMe donations, so get your credit and debit cards ready now. Then go to this link: https://gofund.me/c8778f10

Because I don’t know anyone in my circle of beloveds who needs or deserves a blessing more right now than my man Alan Whitt.

Sometimes it feels as if I’ve known Whitt — I don’t recall ever calling him Alan — all my life. I’m certain I’ve known him almost all of my professional life.

He joined the staff of the Grand Rapids Press in West Michigan shortly after I was hired there in the mid-70s, taking my place as the paper’s “cub reporter” and shattering my uniqueness of being the only Black male journalist on the staff. (But I liked being unique!) Then when I moved on up to the Motor City and took my job as rock music critic and eventually TV columnist at the Detroit News, Whitt followed me there, too, pursuing his passion as deputy sports editor. We didn’t see each other as much as we did in GR, working in different departments on separate floors, but it was somehow cool and comforting just knowing we were still in the same building.

Whitt went on to far greater heights, winning Emmys with ESPN’s SportsCenter and launching his own successful travel business, Allure Quest Travel Experience, LLC, specializing in luxury cruises and romantic vacations. (Stroke of genius, if you ask me.) His achievements have come as no surprise to me, since it seems like Whitt has always been following behind me, then trying to one-up me. 

And usually succeeding.

So when he found out he needed an organ transplant, it wasn’t enough for Whitt to just have a kidney transplant, like I did 11 years ago tomorrow, Nov. 18. Oh NO! Not him. He had to have a kidney transplant AND a heart transplant — at the same time!

When I heard the news, memories of all the uncertainty, the fear, the depression and the anger over feeling my body was betraying me immediately came flooding back. Then I imagined doubling down on all those emotions, knowing my heart was circling the drain, too.

“If I hadn’t received a new heart I would have been dead in a year,” Whitt acknowledged during one of our several conversations since suffering his initial heart attack in December 2019. “That’s just the reality. I’ve got a long, long, long, long road to go. Like the rest of my life.”

Whitt says he started having heart problems as far back as 2009, but the betrayal became complete while he was in a movie theater in Nashville, where he lives with his wife Gloria, watching Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker with his son-in-law, Marcus. “I could feel it coming,” he recalls. “I texted Gloria and she told me to get to the emergency room immediately.

“I got up to walk out behind the seats and I just passed out. My son-in-law had to call 911, and they came and took me to the hospital. The doctors decided I needed a pacemaker and a defibrillator, so they put them in my chest.” 

Alan and Gloria, on his 70th birthday.

The rest of his life, which I pray will be long, happy and healthy, will never be the same. Whitt was hospitalized for a month, followed by three months of isolation and a seemingly endless string of doctor’s appointments. “Until February of this year,” he says, “no one had ever even mentioned the word ‘transplant’ to me.”

Then came the wait and worry to find a matching donor. Whitt has not been told the identity of the deceased person whose organs he received, although he does know both heart and kidney came from the same person. The old reporter in him sussed out that his donor was male, young, possibly an athlete or at least in very good physical shape, and may not have died by natural causes.

But at least the dude’s heart and kidneys survived intact, and in this case that’s all that matters. 

Whitt estimates he has had upwards of 10 surgeries over the past four years in Nashville’s Ascension Saint Thomas Hospital network, which he says helped heal his soul as well as his body. 

“It’s a Christian hospital, which I really love,” he says. “While the doctors and nurse practitioners were working on me, another nurse would be holding my hand and praying, and they don’t mind. I love this hospital. I wouldn’t go anywhere else.”

After his successful transplant double-double, Whitt endured three 45-minute rehab sessions every day for weeks. He had to use a rollator to get around until he could work up enough strength to graduate to his father’s walking stick. He’ll be taking handfuls of new drugs, including a strict regimen of anti-rejection pills twice a day, exactly 12 hours apart, for the rest of his days. And at least for now, he is undergoing a heart biopsy once a month to make sure there are no signs of rejection or abnormalities. 

And if that weren’t enough, Whitt and Gloria have been living like nomads with no permanent address, staying in a hotel for more than two years. Why, you may ask? Because a tree crashed through the roof of their house during a violent storm and destroyed their living areas, leaving it to insurance and contractors to wage war over the repairs. 

You ever heard of the Perils of Pauline? Well, this real-life soap opera could be called the Woes of Whitt. 

Gloria and Whitt had to remain apart for weeks, as he needed to remain in isolation while she really needed to work in order to keep some income flowing in. His daughter, Alanne, came in from Ohio to help care for him. And, as you probably could guess, as soon as Alanne left his side in isolation she contracted COVID. (She’s fine now.)

Oh…my…gracious.

Whitt can’t possibly work, at least not for the foreseeable future. And with all the expenses connected with his medical care and just everyday living, the couple’s bottom line could use a serious transplant of cash. 

That’s where you come in.

Through it all, Whitt says, “I tell you, man, I know that I’m blessed. I’m feeling stronger every day. This isn’t anything that I did. This is God taking care of me. Because everything had to be perfect. If there was one glitch it could have screwed the whole thing up.”

Alan Whitt is one of the most decent, talented and worthy dudes I’ve ever known. He’s definitely the only Ohio State Buckeye I’ve ever liked. He knows how blessed he is to still be with us; now he needs us to give him a little help.

There is a GoFundMe account established in his name, including updates on his condition. Here again is the link: https://gofund.me/c8778f10

Won’t you please consider giving as much as you can, especially present and former members of the Detroit media and anyone who has worked alongside him over his career?

As always, I would never ask you to do anything I hadn’t already done myself.

Get healthy quick, Whitt. The cruise ships miss you.

O Brother, Where Art Thy Heart? Wish I Could Get You a New One

Family Reunion: My Brother Lonnie, Sister Jacqui (Umi), and Me.  

I'll wager even most of my closest friends don't know that I have an older brother.

There are at least two very good reasons for this.

One, to the best of my recollection, none of my friends have ever met him.

And two, I was raised as an only child.

I'm sure those explanations require their own explanations, but before I get to that let me get to this: my brother, Lionel – or Lonnie, or Limabean to his besties – is in desperate need of a heart transplant.

He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure two years ago and currently is on the transplant waiting list at Spectrum Hospital in Grand Rapids. Even when a match is found, however, he still will need additional funds to pay for the hospital expenses and medications his insurance will not cover.

So a GoFundMe account has been established on his behalf in hopes of raising at least $10,000 for his medical bills.

Click here for the link to Lonnie's GoFundMe page. Please give if you can, and generously. Any amount at all is deeply appreciated. And as always, I would never ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself.

And do you find it bizarre and incredible, as I do, that two siblings should grow up to both need organ transplants –– for different organs? What is that, bad blood? Weak cells? Damaged DNA? Whatever the cause, I only pray that my brother may find an organ donor as perfectly matched and life restoring as I did.

And soon.

Which kind of brings us back to where Mr. (Lima) Bean has been all my life. Now, I don't know if this story is completely accurate, but it's the one I was told growing up:

Lonnie and my sister, Jacqui –– better known as Umi (OO-mee) to practically everyone in and around Muskegon, Mich., including her 19 grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren –– were very young when our father walked out on them and my birth mother, Josephine. Only Josephine wasn't technically my birth mother at the time, since she was still pregnant with me.

Lonnie and Jacqui. Notice who's not in the shot.

Josephine could barely afford the two kids she had, much less a new rugrat. And while I stand foursquare in favor of a woman's right to choose, I am sooo thankful she made the choice she did, else I would not be here telling you this story. Rather than flush me away, she delivered me and almost immediately put me up for adoption to a wonderful older couple in tiny Spring Lake, Mich., about 15 miles from Muskegon. These were the McFarlins, my Mom and Dad, and a better set of parents you would be hard-pressed to find.

(I never knew my birth father. Wouldn't recognize him if he came into my office right now and poked me in the eye. Although if he tried, since he'd have to be pushing 90 these days, I'm pretty sure I could dodge him.)

Now, here's where a curious thing happened. Because our two towns were so close, and because the McFarlins knew Josephine's parents, my maternal grandparents, very well (that's kind of how the adoption was arranged, practically through a handshake deal), I grew up knowing my birth family, unlike many adopted children. Indeed, we often gathered together to share birthdays, holidays and other special occasions. And for about a week every summer vacation, we would alternate: I would go to Muskegon and stay with Josephine and Jacqui, or Jacqui would come to Spring Lake and visit with us. When you're a little kid, you can't have enough people loving you.

Where is Lionel in all this, you ask? Well, Lonnie was the oldest sibling, the man of the house, and I don't know how much time he spent playing with Jacqui growing up but I know he didn't much have much tolerance for a bespectacled little nerd who showed up once a year, baby brother or no. And Spring Lake was way too slow for his speed. Like most kids, he much preferred to be in the streets, running with his boys, than babysitting some intruder.

So I didn't see much of him. I totally got it. But I remember my "vacation" weeks in Muskegon as terrifying. Josephine was a single mother and had to go to work every day, leaving me in the custody of Jacqui and Lonnie. They weren't what you'd call homebodies.

They had to take me with them, and I recall being left in alleys, stores, strange houses full of people I didn't know...for sheltered Little Jimmy, who'd rather be reading a book through his Coke-bottle glasses or watching cartoons in the living room.... I may still have PTSD.

My brother, Lonnie, today: Take heart. 

But now that we're all old folks, I've grown to respect Lonnie a great deal and the man he's become. He absolutely loves to hunt and fish (how can we possibly be related?), and can no longer fully pursue his passions. His quality of life, indeed the joy of life itself, has been seriously curtailed by his illness and reduced activity level.

My brother has a good heart, emotionally speaking, but the original equipment in his chest is failing him. He needs a new heart, quickly, and the ability to afford all the ancillary equipment and supplies that a transplant requires.

Again, here is the link to the GoFundMe page to support Lionel. Please give if you can; any amount is appreciated.

I know you may not know him, but I do. And he's a good man.