This story is by Susie A Taylor and was part of our 10th Anniversary Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
I’ve been dreading this day for a year.
You’d think a wedding anniversary would garner a happy celebration, and it usually is. Now, it’s just the day our son died.
It has been a year since we sat by his bed, holding each other, watching the blips and bleeps on the monitor, praying that he’d open his eyes, that his heart rate would stabilize. Instead, we watched it go from 120 to 94 to 57 to 0.
The loss is more biting today than others. We won’t exchange gifts; we won’t go out to dinner; we might wish each other a “happy” anniversary. We’ve been married for 39 years; we had Owen for 28 of them. But today, we have another reason to remember. It has been a year since the phone call that changed heartbreak for us into hope for someone else.
My initial reaction wasn’t the most compassionate.
——–
“No,” I cried in disbelief. “Absolutely not!”
Marcus, my younger son, held out the phone to me with his hand covering the mouthpiece. “C’mon, Mom. I know this is hard, but Owen was an organ donor. He’d want you to get this figured out now. Just talk to the lady.”
I couldn’t. It was too soon. Owen had just died four hours ago. My son. My first-born. The child who made me a Mommy. How could they want to talk about his organs, like he had simply been the locker holding someone else’s purchases?
Marcus caught my eye and raised his arm holding the receiver. “Please, Mom. It could mean life to someone else. Please.”
I knew he was right, but how could I think about that now?
Then common sense took over. Of course, they need to know now. Otherwise, there would be nothing left to be “harvested.” What a word. The act of removing organs and tissue from a body that no longer needed them and placing them into a body that did. It made the process seem like a farming operation.
My heart skipped a few beats. I reached out and took the receiver from Marcus.
“Hello. This is Shannon Martin,” I whispered, barely able to keep the tears and emotion from flooding through the phone line.
“Mrs. Martin. This is Maggy from LifeLine of Ohio. I am so sorry for your loss, and I apologize for contacting you like this. I know it has been a difficult day. But Owen marked on his driver’s license that he wished for his organs to be donated upon his death…”
Owen marked? No. That was all on me. I’m the one who took him to the BMV office to renew his state-issued ID – not a driver’s license. I remember holding his head up so the clerk could get a clear picture of his face. Owen always sat in his wheelchair, hunched over, even when he had his harness on.
I remember putting one hand under his chin and the other near his forehead and lifting his head to face the camera. He had a silly, lopsided grin on his face, and he started to laugh. That’s when the clerk snapped the picture. I had to chuckle after she handed me the still-warm, laminated document. There he was, with my hands framing his face, his smile wide. The photo was one of the best of Owen I had ever seen. I didn’t notice the small “Organ Donor” symbol in the corner.
“Mrs. Martin?”
“Yes. I’m here. I’m sorry.” Then I remembered the conversation I had with one of the doctors a couple of days ago, when we knew Owen’s time was near. She let me know that she would have to make two phone calls once Owen was pronounced dead – one to LifeLine of Ohio and the other to the Franklin County coroner. Apparently, it was a law that anytime someone with a developmental disability died, the coroner had to be notified to determine if the death was suspicious. That wasn’t the case for Owen. We knew why he was dying, and it certainly wasn’t suspicious in any way. The reference to the organ donor organization skipped through my brain without any recognition.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I remember now that you were following Owen’s case. I guess I should have expected your call. I’m just not thinking straight, I guess.”
“That’s expected, Mrs. Martin. No apology is necessary,” Maggy said. “Again, please accept my condolences. I can only guess how hard the past few weeks have been. I know this call may be difficult, but we think Owen may be able to save a couple of people’s sight.”
“What? Wait. Sight? You realize Owen was blind, right?”
“Yes, but his corneas are … were fine. We think he may be able to restore the sight of two people.”
“Well, that’s ironic,” I said. Or ‘eye’ronic, as the case may be, I thought. I really can’t say that out loud, can I?
Since that conversation about a year ago, I’ve had that same thought many times: That’s not something a grieving mother should say for other people to hear.
I’ve had a year to remember the funny things Owen did; the way he laughed at shark movies because he loved the screaming; how he whispered “Mommy?” as I walked through his room at night; or how he yelled “No way! No way!” while he splashed and sent bubbles splattering all over the bathroom while getting a bath.
And I’ve had a year to regret the surgery that ultimately caused his death, that led to the infection and shocked his system so much that his heart just stopped. I’ve tormented myself with the “what ifs” for a year. But today, we will meet the answer to the other question we’ve been asking ourselves for so long: “Why?”
Why was he taken from us so soon? Wasn’t all he’d been through before that enough to prove his place in this world? He may have been blind and virtually non-verbal. He may have worn diapers and, at times, acted like a 2-year-old. But I knew him. His dad knew him. His brother knew him. And he knew us.
When I got another call from Maggy a couple of weeks ago, I was surprised. One of the recipients of Owen’s corneas wanted to meet us. Oh, God. Can I do this?
That brings us to today. Our 39th wedding anniversary and the first anniversary of Owen’s death.
We are waiting in the lobby at the offices of LifeLine of Ohio in Columbus. My foot is bouncing up and down so much that my husband puts his hand on my knee. I stop bouncing and start chewing on my lips.
A young woman steps through a door and approaches us.
“Hi. I’m Maggy. You must be the Martins.” She extends her hand and I take it as I stand and pump it once. She shakes hands with Walker and Marcus.
That’s when I notice the young man standing behind her. He must be about 30 or so. My breath catches as I stare into his eyes. He’s a ginger, just like Owen.
I give a quick inhalation and step toward him, reaching up to place my hands on his cheeks. I don’t understand it, but I feel like I know this young man.
“I know you,” I whisper. How? It can’t be his eyes. I certainly can’t recognize corneas, can I? But I know I’ve looked into those eyes before. The last time, they were dull and cloudy, unseeing. Now, they are full of life, twinkling and clear.
Behind him, there are even more people – a young woman and two small children, an older couple about Martin’s and my age. They are smiling. That’s when I realize I am smiling, too.
“You are why,” I breathe. “You are the answer to my ‘why.’”
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