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.