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Spring brings with it many
gifts...the bright hash of the goldfinch and the budding of life in so many
varied forms. When the sounds of Spring 1988 filled the air, my son, Aaron, an
avid explorer and lover of all creatures great and small, set out for a local
creek with expectations of discovering new life. As he patiently attempted to
cross the road directly in front of our home, Aaron was struck by a motorist.
Before my eyes, my child was spun over the hood of the car, up the windshield,
his rubber boots flying off as he cart-wheeled through the air to land ninety
feet down the road. Following three intensive days on life-support, Aaron was
declared brain-dead. Instead of preparing his tenth birthday celebration that
weekend, we found ourselves preparing his funeral.
There has been no protection from
the profound and searing pain of this loss, yet I have found sources of comfort
to be as many facetted as life itself. Among the variety of unexpected ways
comfort has found its way into our lives, is the reality and endeavor of organ
donation.
At the time that Aaron was
pronounced brain-dead, I was fortunate to have placed within my hands the
option and opportunity for organ donation. The decision to donate organs for
transplant was not difficult to make. When Aaron's physician presented this
option to me. I knew immediately my response would be
affirmative.
I have often considered what
factors contributed to making that decision. I know that one of those factors
is attributable to the character of the physician and nursing staff who cared
for Aaron. The combination of intellectual thoroughness and technical know-how
with gentleness of spirit and sensitive compassion had reinforced the sense of
confidence and trust I'd place in them, necessary to having entrusted my child
to their care. The option of organ donation was presented in a very
informative, non-pressuring and direct manner, with the acknowledgement of the
difficult and regrettable circumstances into which we had been thrust. I had
observed their treatment of my son as not coldly clinical, but compassionately
competent. Had the option for organ donation not been offered by Aaron's
physician, I would have had deep regrets today.
Another factor that eased the
making of this decision was the intuitive certainty that this was something
Aaron himself would have been comfortable with. The brevity of his life had
been filled with making microscope slides, retrieving small animal skeletons,
caring for crabs, crayfish, ghost shrimp, spiny mice, moles. He pored over
books on birds, fish, skeletons and reptiles, wonder-struck by the beauty and
variety of nature's gifts. He was a tender-spirited child who most certainly
would have made this very decision for himself.
Finally, I knew within my own
heart that I could not withhold healing and life from someone else. It was not
my entitlement or my place to do so. Here I had placed within my hand, a gift
as profound as my own grief; the opportunity to contribute to the healing and life
of someone else. That other person was also someone's child, parent, sibling or
friend. It provided an opportunity to cherish and reaffirm life, ironically
offered in the pit of my own retching shock and turmoil in the face of my
child's death. A taste of springtime in the bleak of winter, the option to
donate was itself a gift.
When we look beyond the immediate
circumstances of the decision for organ donation. however, we find there are
foundational factors in life that move us in or from either one direction or
the other. I or me, there were two major perceptions about life that had
significant bearing on my decision.
One of those perceptions was that
whatever we have in life is entrusted to us. We don't own the planet we live
on. We don't own our children. Ownership of property, material and personal
goods really means that we are granted the opportunity and freedom to take
responsibility for their use and well-being. Everything we have is a trust. It
is entrusted to us for the brief time we are here.
The other perception that
fundamentally prepared me for an affirmative decision was the conviction that
we are indeed our brothers' keepers and they are our keepers, without which
community is impossible. We are entrusted to one another.
With the increasing awareness of
the global, national and social problems we have created for ourselves as North
Americans, we seem to experience also a growing grass-roots awareness that our
priorities need to take into account a deep and renewed sense of responsibility
for life as we find and develop it, beyond personal achievement, satisfaction
or gain. It is my sincere conviction that when a sense of stewardship for our
national and personal resources and responsibility for the well-being of the
earth and of one another become part of our personal and national consciousness
and understanding of life, there will no longer be a shortage of' organs for
transplant. No one would have to die waiting.
One week before his accident,
Aaron, with birthdays in mind, had come to me and said, "I'm sorry I can't
get you a big birthday present, Mom." I hugged him and replied.
"That's alright, Aaron. You are the present.'' I wondered within my heart
whether he would ever truly know what a profound and wonderful gift he was, how
grateful I was to share his life. I could never have imagined that he would
provide the gift that would bring a special touch of springtime into the lives
of six persons unknown to us. His gift of healing and renewal was the last gift
we were to give together.
Mary Steenland
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