A Gift That Lives On

 A Gift That Lives On

If you read my last post, you know that my life was suddenly turned upside down by a family emergency.

I wish I could tell you that everything has gotten better since then.

It hasn’t.

My husband passed away.

Those are words I still have trouble writing, much less saying out loud. There are moments when it still doesn’t seem real, and then there are others when the reality of it comes crashing in all over again.

Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t follow a schedule, and it certainly doesn’t care about our plans. One minute you can be doing something completely ordinary, and the next, you are reminded that the person who was supposed to be there beside you isn’t.

There is something from this experience that I feel compelled to talk about, though, because I believe it is an important conversation for all of us to have.

Organ donation.

My husband had made the choice to be an organ donor. But this wasn’t something decided during his illness. We had both made that choice long ago.

And we had talked about it.

We had talked about what we would want if either of us were ever critically ill. We talked about the hope of recovery, because when someone you love is sick, that’s what you hold onto. You hope. You pray. You wait for good news.

But we also talked about what we would want if there came a point when recovery was no longer possible.

Those aren’t easy conversations.

Nobody wants to sit with the person they love and talk about what happens if they don’t survive. It’s much easier to say, “We’ll deal with that if we ever have to.”

I’m so grateful we didn’t.

Because when the unimaginable happened, I already knew what he wanted.

Unfortunately, by the time everything was said and done, he was simply too ill for organ donation other than his eyes. And while that wasn’t the outcome we had hoped for, I am still grateful that even a small part of him may be able to give something to someone else.

I don’t know who that person might be. I may never know.

But if he had been able to I’d like to think about the possibility of a phone ringing somewhere and someone receiving a call they have been desperately hoping for.

A call saying that a donor has been found.

A call that might mean another chance at life. More time with a spouse. More birthdays with children. More ordinary days that suddenly become incredibly precious.

That is what organ donation means.

And sometimes, because of circumstances we cannot control, donation isn’t possible. Sometimes only certain tissues or parts of the body can be donated. Sometimes nothing can be donated at all.

But I don’t think that makes the decision any less important.

The willingness to give is important.

And knowing what your loved one wanted is important.

So this is my plea to you:

Have the conversation.

Talk to the people you love about what you would want if you were ever in a critical illness situation.

Talk about your hopes for recovery. Talk about the care you would want. And talk about what you would want if doctors determined that recovery was no longer possible.

If you want to be an organ donor, tell your family.

Don’t assume they know.

Don’t assume they’ll remember.

Have the conversation while you are sitting around the kitchen table, while you are healthy, while you can talk about it calmly and without the fear and emotion that comes with a hospital room.

We don’t like to think about these things.

Neither did we.

But I’m incredibly thankful that we did.

Because in the hardest moments of my life, I didn’t have to wonder what he would have wanted.

He had told me.

And I knew.

There is no way to make losing someone you love okay. There is no perfect ending to a story like this.

But maybe there can be something beyond the ending.

Maybe there can be a gift.

Maybe there can be a little more time for someone else.

And for me, knowing that my husband was willing to give that gift—even though his illness ultimately prevented most of it—is something I will always carry with me.

His eyes were able to be donated.

And somewhere, I hope they will help someone see a little more of this world.

That thought gives me a small measure of comfort in a time when there isn’t much comfort to be found.

My husband is gone.

But his story doesn’t have to end with his last breath.

And neither does the conversation.

Please talk to the people you love.

One day at a time.

 

 

 

The Things That Matter Most

Lately, I've been reminded that when life gets turned upside down, the things that matter most have a way of becoming very clear.

So… Where Have I Been?

I’ve been a little quiet lately, and I know some of you have noticed.

I’ve actually had several people ask where I’ve been and if everything is okay. I’ve started to realize that when you regularly share pieces of your life, your projects, your sewing, your quilting, and all the things that keep you busy, people notice when you suddenly disappear for a while.

So I thought it was probably time for a little explanation.

The short version is… life has been happening.

I’ve been dealing with a family emergency that took a lot of my time and attention. There have been a lot of worries, a lot of waiting, and a lot of things that simply needed to take priority over everything else.

I wasn’t really sure when I would feel like I could start getting back to normal.

Then, just about the time I thought things were beginning to settle down, the bottom fell out again.

Another family emergency.

I’m not going to share the details or say who is involved. But I will say that what is happening right now is devastating, and I am heartbroken.

There is also a lot of uncertainty. I don’t know how this is going to turn out. And honestly, that’s probably one of the hardest parts of all.

When you’re used to making plans, working on projects, looking forward to the next quilt, the next blog post, the next creative idea… it’s difficult when suddenly you can’t think much further ahead than today.

My sewing room is still there. My unfinished projects are still waiting patiently—or perhaps judging me a little. There are ideas in my head that I haven’t had the time or the heart to work on. And my blog has been sitting here quietly waiting for me to come back to it.

Eventually, I will.

Right now, though, my family needs me more than my sewing machine does.

I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to put everything else down and be where you are needed. Even when you don’t want to be there. Even when you’re scared. Even when you desperately wish you could fix things that are completely out of your control.

So that’s where I’ve been.

I’m still here. I’m just taking things one day at a time and trying to navigate something I never expected to be dealing with.

I don’t know when things will feel normal again. I’m hoping and praying that they will. I’m hoping that someday soon I’ll be able to sit down at my sewing machine without my mind being somewhere else entirely.

And when that happens, I have a feeling I’ll have plenty to share.

For now, I just want to say thank you.

Thank you to those of you who have continued to follow along, even when I haven’t been posting. Thank you to those who have checked in, sent messages, and simply wondered how I was doing. I may not always have the words to respond, but please know that it means more to me than you realize.

Life doesn’t always give us a choice about when we have to stop and take care of the things that matter most.

So for now, I’m taking a breath, taking it one day at a time, and holding onto hope.

I’m hoping that things will eventually come back to some sense of normality.

And when they do, I’ll be here—with plenty of fabric, plenty of unfinished projects, and hopefully a little bit of my old self ready to get back to creating.

Thank you for being here with me.

Mary