Anderson was out of town when Clark's heart began the decline that would speed up the timeline for the historic surgery. He flew in during a mammoth snowstorm and went straight to the U., where he was also on the faculty, to watch the operation.

"Gosh, I wonder if this is going to make the local papers tomorrow," he remembers wondering.

Even in decline, Clark was a large man, about 200 pounds and over 6 feet tall, blessed with a chest that could accommodate what was a large, multichamber device.

He was also well-versed in the medical realities, aware that he would for his lifetime be tethered to mechanical out-of-body support by two, six-foot lines. It was hoped that with time that support would become more portable than the washer-size machine that powered his heart.

He was to be the first human recipient of a heart that had been used countless times in sheep and cows with funny names like "Tennyson" and "Abebe" and "Ted E. Bear," each with its own story.

One, Fernando, had three hearts, living 44 days on the Jarvik-7 before bridging to a transplant from his twin. He died 22 months later, not of complications from the hearts but from blood vessel problems caused by the repeated insertion of catheters to monitor his condition. Fernando proved that the mechanical heart could be a bridge to transplant — that the transplanted heart would grow with him.

Without the mechanical heart, Clark would die — a situation and requirement that was not negotiable for either the U.'s Institutional Review Board or the FDA when it came to implanting an unproven experimental device in a human.

Out of options, Clark had done his homework. He'd talked to numerous doctors, had intimate conversations with family members about their feelings, even visited the barns at the old St. Mark's Hospital on 800 South and 300 West to see the animals that walked on treadmills, artificial hearts pumping in their bovine chests. He'd signed the 11-page consent form once, then again a day later. And in the hours leading up to the surgery, he didn't waver, his widow, UnaLoy Farrer, says now.

"He wanted to help others who would come later. And he wanted to live."

In the years that have passed, many things have changed. Old collaborations have broken down, while others have strengthened. The ethical debates on use of the device have been replaced by new hot-button subjects, such as embryonic stem cells. Next-generation technologies that surely were rooted in the artificial heart, such as left-ventricular assist devices (LVADs), continue to save lives.

UnaLoy Farrer remembers the days surrounding the artificial heart transplant as a terrible, wonderful time.

Don B. Olsen, the veterinarian who had more experience than anyone implanting the device, albeit in livestock, calls it "a remarkable, fascinating time."

Cardiologist Anderson sees it as a "medical journey to the moon."