Organ Donor

My friend Kathy needed a new set of lungs. The disease had gotten so bad that nothing else would do. Unless she got lucky and someone with a compatible blood type died, she would die and leave behind her two lovely babies and an adoring husband. I on the other hand, had a sort of mediocre existence. Yes, I had Peter, my boyfriend, he was nice enough, but its not like he would be lost without me like I knew Jimmy would be if Kathy died, and I certainly had no kids counting on me for love and nurturing. My job brought no satisfaction and seemed to have little meaning except to make the rich boss
richer. I couldn't think of much of anything I had that brought much meaning to life. It seemed so unfair that she should die and I should live.

I was thinking about this when I noticed the small article in the paper about the Supreme Court refusing to over turn the Johnson/Emhart donor act. It had been all over the papers when it passed congress a couple years ago. Then it faded in to rapid obscurity. It was said that the only reason it passed was because Congress was full of alcoholics who needed new livers. But who would be willing to give up their life for an alcoholic Senator? Basically the law had two parts. It said that any doctor who helped someone die would be free from prosecution if two or more of their organs were donated. It also
authorized a government payment to the family of anyone who willing gave up their life so that a number of their organs could be donated. The payment intended to be sufficient to cover the cost of as nice a funeral as anyone could want. The right wing fundamentalists said it encouraged suicide so they had fought it in court, which is why I was reading about it now.

Suddenly the obvious answer became all to clear. Almost without thinking I walked out the door yelling, "I quit" to the boss as I did. I headed down town to the hospital and asked for the transplant center. I found the area they directed me too and walked up to the receptionist and said "I wish to talk to someone about being a Johnson/Emhart donor."

The receptionist looked up in stunned surprise: "a what?" Of course she knew what I meant, because the law also required that all transplant centers train their staff in the law. But no one ever thought anyone would actually take advantage of it. After a few speechless moments she managed to stutter, "um, yes, of course… I will get someone… immediately!"

I just a few minutes I was ushered into the office of Dr. Vincent, the chief surgeon and coordinator for the center. I asked him very directly, how many people could benefit from my organs. He answered, in a quiet gentle voice. If you really want to do this, we of course will help you. One person could use your heart, another your lungs. Your liver could be divided between three people, and your kidneys would go to another two. Your spleen could save someone's life, as could your pancreas. We transplant adrenals now, and portions of intestine. Not to mention muscle and skin grafts. All told, you could easily save 10 peoples lives and benefit the lives of many more. The logic seemed in escapable. My mediocre life for at least 10 others; how could I turn back now?

Can you promise me that I will not suffer when I die?

Yes, he responded, with remarkable calm, I can assure you that.

I have a friend, who needs a lung transplant. I want to find out if I am a compatible donor for her. If I am, I want to do this. What do I have to do?

He told me that Kathy and I would have to both give blood samples, which they would test to see if we were compatible. If we were, he would arrange other recipients. He knew all the waiting lists were long and there would not be a problem finding people. He did apologize for not having a program all worked out and for being a bit surprised. It is just that no one had come forward before wanting to do this. I thanked him for his kindness and went to talk to Kathy.

Kathy was home. She was too sick to do much and was mostly bed ridden, having resigned herself that she was going to die, she wanted to die at home. That is where I found her. She looked so weak and pale lying there, I could tell she didn't have a lot of time left. I was afraid of taking much time explaining what I wanted to do for fear of loosing my nerve. So I came to the point quickly: "I think it is horrible that you are going to die and leave your husband and babies. They need you. No one really needs me so I want to give you my lungs"

Kathy sat there totally dumbfounded for a few minutes before stuttering "you can't, you'll die…I could never ask you to…."

"You aren't asking me to. I am giving them to you. You want to see your babies grow up don't you?"

well of course but….

Good, then that's that. The nurse from VNA will be here in a few minutes to draw our blood and see if we are compatible. If we are, you and Jimmy can have another girl and name her after me. For once in my life I will have done something worth while."

The Nurse was right on schedule, and soon samples of our blood were on the way to the lab to test for compatibility. We would meet with the doctor in a couple days to find the results. Then a sickening thought crossed my mind. What will Peter think? My parents had died a couple years ago, and I had no other close family, but t is not as if I was without friends. They would have to be told. I decided to wait to tell others until I knew there was compatibility. But I knew I needed to tell Peter right away.

I called Peter and said I had something important to discuss. When we met, I took a deep breath and told him everything I was planning to do, as quickly as I could get it out, because I didn't know any other way to do it. Peter sat in stunned silence a few moments. I expected a lot of anger, or argument from him. But instead, he embraced me and told me he thought it was about the bravest thing he had ever heard of anyone doing. He told me how it made him love me even more. He said if I sure it was what I wanted to do, he would be there for me all the way.

Kathy and I went together to the office two days later. I was nearly sick with anticipation. Dreading that it might be a match, dreading that it wouldn't be. In a sense, both answers would be horrible, and wonderful. The doctor came in and said he didn't know what was good news in this case. It seemed almost a dream as he said it: "Compatible blood…3 out of 4 antigens match…. Exceptional for non-relatives… high probability of transplant success"

We embraced in tears. At once both overjoyed and grief stricken. Kathy would live… I would die.

The doctor handed me the consent forms, which I signed. I guess it was nervous tension that made me giggle as the thought came to me all of a sudden that I should be signing in blood or something, or at least red ink. The doctor didn't think it was funny. He asked for permission to contact recipients for my other organs, and I told him that I hoped he would. If I was going to do this, I wanted to have as much good come from it as possible. He also made appointments for me for the next day to CAT scans and other studies done so they could plan the surgery carefully.

I could see the questioning expression on Peter's face as I met him in the waiting area. My own feelings were so mixed I didn't know for sure what to say. In the end, I just gave him a kiss and said, "so what do you know about planning funerals?"

Later, as we talked, he said he only had one request. He wanted to get married before I died, even if it would only be for a few days. We had talked about this before, but agreed we weren't quite ready, and even though we had been close, we had agreed to save that ultimate intimacy for the time when we were. I told him it was a lot to handle with everything else, but yes, I would marry him if we could arrange it before the operation.

A couple days later I heard from the doctor again. He had arranged with most of the recipients. Surgery would be in two weeks. He asked me to come to the office to discuss what was planned. He told me to bring a friend because it might be troubling to discuss, and having a good friend there for support might help. I called Peter and asked him to come with me and he agreed to meet me there.

At the office the doctor said he wanted me to understand what to expect on the day of the surgery. He said that because this was so unusual, he had several meetings with the team of surgeons to decide the best approach. He assumed I would want to do what would be best for the donors as long as my own suffering was not great. He went on to describe how live donor transplants usually worked the best. The plan therefore would be to remove as many of my organs as possible under a spinal block anesthesia, before stopping my heart. The drugs they would use for that would be the same as for open-heart surgery, except that here they would not use the antidote until my heart was implanted in the donor. My official time of death would be declared at the time they stopped my heart. He said that he had talked to patients who had been able to describe
much of what went on while under anesthesia, but none had ever described any pain, so I might have some sensation of what was going on up until my heart was stopped.

He described all this in a matter of fact tone that I found very reassuring for some reason. I asked if I could have someone with me at the end. And he said that it might be possible if they were willing to observe operating room protocol and would not be upset by seeing me opened up this way. Peter said he was pretty sure it would be ok and made arrangements to meet with the doctor later to talk about what to expect and what he needed to do.

It was so strange the next day when I went to the funeral home to make arrangements. After all, who except maybe condemned criminals know exactly when their death is going to occur? I went to the funeral home that Kathy had planned in using, which was run by a woman. I had heard rumors of funeral directors using their client for sex, and while I doubted it was true, I decided I had enough to think about with out that. The woman who ran the home was very nice, and assured me that I would be well taken care of. Something about her gentle, reassuring manor made it easier to deal with, this business of planning for my death. We talked about my religious preferences, did I want to be buried or cremated (buried); did I have some one in mind to preside? (The pastor from my church) favorite flowers? Any preference for burial site? (Local cemetery near Mom and Dad) on and on it went, details from favorite songs to picking out a gravestone. I had done it before, sort of, for my parents, but they had mostly "pre-arranged" things. I hadn't realized there was so much to handle. Peter came along for emotional support, but I managed pretty well until in came time to pick out a casket. Then I just lost it. In the
end I let Peter do it. He picked out a nice white one with pink satin lining. I asked the funeral director if I could be initially laid out for viewing, not in the casket, but in a sort of bed. I had this picture in my mind of Claire Danes as Juliet in the movie, surrounded by candles in a dimly lit room. The funeral director said it could be arranged. I arranged for this viewing the day after the operation, with another one, more traditional, the day after that. My funeral would be held the 3rd day after the operation. In only a little over two weeks I would be buried.

Peter and I went directly from the funeral home to the church, to ask about getting married. I told the pastor what I was planning to do. He was remarkably understanding and assured me that God must surely be saving a special place for me. I am not a very religious person, but this made me feel better anyway. He agreed that we could be married the Saturday after next, 2 days before the operation. We planned a fairly simple service, with just those friends we could invite by word of mouth and who lived locally, with a small reception after in the church fellowship hall. Given the fact that I would be
dead 2 days after, I guessed not to many people would want a really wild party.

The next day I went to see Kathy again. I was hoping she would feel well enough to be my matron of honor. She told me if she had to be pushed in a wheel chair with an oxygen tank dragging behind she would be there. Then she told me she had a special present for me and directed me to the table where a dress box was lying. I opened it and lifted out a beautiful satin wedding dress, which I recognized from her wedding. She said she knew I wouldn't have time to shop, and hoped I would like to wear it when Peter and I got married. I told her of course I would, as my eyes filled with tears. But what she said next really stunned me: " I… I… was going to be buried in this, before you offered me this gift….of life itself. I would be double honored… If you would wear it for your wedding…" she paused, struggling for the words somehow I knew were coming. "And, well, I think you will look like an angel if you wear it for the funeral too." I was total overwhelmed, and could only answer with a tearful embrace.

The next several days were exhausting to say the least. I had to go back to the hospital for 2 days of tests to help all the surgeons plan the operation. But the hardest part was telling all my friends. There were at least a dozen conversations that went sort of like this:

"Joanne? I've got special news. Peter and I are getting married, Yea, it kind of sudden, but can you come? Yea? Wonderful!! … but that's not all… are you sitting down? Yea? Good. Well we have to do it so soon because…. (deep breath) …. I am going to donate all my organs the Monday after… Yes, It means I'm going to die. Can you come to my funeral on Thursday the 7th?…"

For a few select friends I had to ask too:
"Will you be a bridesmaid? And … a pallbearer?" "yes, you can wear the same dress for both"

It all seemed so surreal, like a part in some strange movie. But somehow I got through it. I leaned on Peter a lot. He was great; always there for me when I needed him most. I must have soaked his shoulder a dozen times with tears.

On Monday, the week before the operation, the doctor called. He said he had an unusual request. He said that normally all these contacts are anonymous until after the operation, and only after the operation is a success do we contact the family of the donor to see if they would like to meet the recipient. Then he went on to say that because this was such special circumstance, some of the recipients want to meet you and thank you personally, would I be up to doing this? I somewhat reluctantly agreed, because I knew it would be more emotional drain, and I didn't know how much I could take.

And so it was on Thursday, two days before my wedding, and a week before my funeral, I found myself making the rounds of the local hospital where most of the recipients were in residence. With Peter with me once again, I went from room to room, facing a repeating script of "you are so wonderful" "Thank You from the bottom of my heart" with my canned response of "just take good care of my (fill in the blank with liver, spleen, kidney, etc) because I will be watching."

Then at last, they led me to the pediatric ward. In a bright room filled with balloons and flowers, lay a little girl, no more than 6 years old, but who looked some how older, maybe because of her wasted look and yellow skin. Or maybe it was the drawn, exhausted expression of her mom, who sat in the chair beside her bed. I was expecting the same scripted line. But instead there was first silence, then a shy smile. At last, with a little coaxing from mom, she held out a colored paper.

Outside, in 6 year old crayon writing it said "For Angil Hana" Inside, in the same crayon, was a stick figure angel holding a little stick figure girls hand and the uneven letters spelling "Thank yu for mi new Livr"

I reached out and hugged little Jessica close as I let the tears flow. More so than at any time in the past I knew this was the right thing to do.

I sat on the bed and talked to Jessica and her mom for quite a while. I asked her if she was scared about what was going to happen, because I sure was. She told me she was a little scared. She said that her mom told her that she might die, but that would mean going to heaven to be with the angels, which would be ok, especially since she knew I would be there and I seemed like a nice lady.

As I was getting ready to leave, a sudden idea came to me. I took her mom outside and told her that, while I really hoped it would go well, if by some chance it didn't, and the worst happened, maybe she would feel a little better if Jessica was buried with me, so she wouldn't be alone. Her mom smiled and told me, if she had to give up her daughter, to send her to heaven in the arms of such an angel would make her feel much better.

Peter and I were married two days later. It was a fairly simple service with just our closest friends. We didn't have time to arrange more. I wore Kathy's dress, and felt absolutely beautiful. Kathy was my maid of honor even though she was in a wheel chair. It was so strange at times. As I walked in, I thought about the fact that in only a few days I would be back here again, dressed in the same dress and but lying in a casket for my funeral. Several of the same friends who where my bridesmaids today would be my pallbearers then. I got through it ok though, and it was as wonderful as I could imagine
when the priest pronounced us man and wife and Peter lifted the veil from my face for our first married kiss.

Peter was so gentle that night, it was wonderful beyond my wildest dreams. Later, as we lay together, it seemed so sad that this first time would be my last. I thought about the fact that in less than 48 hours I would be dead. Then a strange thought crossed my mind. "Peter I know this may sound strange, but, would you… would you like to…. Love me… after??"
"You mean, when you are dead?"
"Yes" he was quiet for a minute, then said "yea, if it would be important to you, I think I would do it"
"thank you" I whispered. And snuggled close against him once more.

I spent the morning of the next day writing letters to friends. Peter and I went through the text of the obituary notice, another strange and difficult thing, but I wanted to leave as little as necessary for others to worry about. I had a few real hard moments when I thought, "in only 24 hours I will be dead", but Peter helped me through them with lots hugs. I must have soaked the shoulder of his shirt several times over. The time seemed to drag by, but it was still all too soon when the time came to go to the hospital.

I had Peter drive me by way of the cemetery and we stopped for a few minutes at the place where I would be buried. It was a small section set off from the rest of the cemetery by hedges on three sides. I had arranged for the purchase of all of the dozen or so plots in this section, with the understanding that friends could use them when needed. Peter of course said he wanted to be buried there, and Kathy said she would be too though she hoped my lungs would last her a long time.

Things were busy at the hospital. I had lots of final consent paperwork to sign, and several tests to complete in preparation for tomorrow's surgery. They wanted my intestines as clean as possible for transplant so I had to drink a gallon of "GoLytely" which has to be the most misnamed medicine ever. Between the trips to the toilet and general nerves, I don't think I slept at all, just counted down the hours. Peter of course stayed with me the whole time. I know it was tough for him. After all, what do you say to someone who is going to die in only a few hours? About 6 AM the pastor from my church came and asked if there was anything else he could do. I said I knew it was kind of strange, but could he read the services for the dying now? He said he would be glad to if it would give me comfort. Then he took out his prayer book and began.

He barely finished when the nurse came in to say it was time to begin. With tears in my eyes I nodded and they wheeled me up to the OR. Peter followed, and was directed to where he could change into surgical scrubs. I was taken directly to the operating room, where preparations were under way for the operation. The anesthesiologist numbed an area on my back and inserted a catheter into my spine. This is how the spinal block would be administered. Then he numbed my shoulder and installed a central line, to be used when it was finally time to stop my heart. Then they set up all the surgical drapes and scrubbed my abdomen and chest, the final preparation before starting. I heard the surgical team come in and ask if the other rooms were ready, where the recipients were being prepared to receive my organs. I heard someone say that yes, they were right on schedule. "ok then" I heard someone say "I know this will be hard for all of you, but lets begin" Then someone who I assume was the head surgeon came and asked me one last time if I wanted to go ahead, and with a quivering voice I said "yes".

Peter came in and stood by my head, holding my hand. We were both in tears as we shared one final kiss, and he told me how he would miss me and would love me always. I smiled through my tears and told him I would be watching over him from heaven. Then I nodded to the anesthesiologist who pushed in the injection. In seconds I felt a warm tingling and drifted off. It was strange because I was sort of between awake and asleep. The bright lights of the OR seemed to swirl around like I was watching some sort of strange movie with lots of distorted film angles. I could hear sounds, but they were sort of garbled. I heard something about "starting the incision" and felt a sort of tugging at my belly and knew that it was started. It all seemed sort of out of time, like sometimes I was looking in from outside, sometimes from inside, all twisted around. I lost all sense of time. It was all so foggy. Then I heard someone say "stopping her heart now" and felt Peter give my hand a squeeze, as he whispered "I love You" There was swirling black all around for a minute, and I was floating, then the world came into focus again, but like I was looking down a long tube. Some how I knew I was dead.

I looked for a minute back at the body on the OR table. But then I felt a need to be somewhere else. I walked, or sort of floated, out of the room and down the hall. Then I was in another Operating room. There was a little girl on the table I recognized as Jessica. The scene in front of me seemed in a slow motion fog, but I could tell things were going badly. Something about "she is arresting" and "BP dropping". I knew suddenly why I was here. Jessica was dying and I needed to be here for her. Through the maze of paraphernalia, and the close packed operating room bodies, I saw her turn to me,
her eyes pleading "it hurts… It hurts so bad…" The rest of the scene seemed to dissolve to mist as I took her in my arms. "It's ok" I whispered "just let go. We are going someplace wonderful, you and I" And together we let the world dissolve into oblivion as we felt bathed in warmth and light and peace.

Two days later Peter arrived at the funeral home just at the time the viewing was supposed to start, but was surprised to find himself alone. The funeral director told about my final instructions. Tonight was not to be a viewing for immediate friends and family as originally discussed, but a private time, for him alone. She then directed him to the room where my body had been placed. He entered, to find the room filled with candlelight. My body lay in the center of the room, not in my casket, but laid out on a bed, and covered with a fine white veil. On a stand just inside the door there was a sealed envelope, with his name. Inside was this note:

"I am writing this in the small hours of the morning as you lie beside me on our wedding night. I will leave it at the funeral home tomorrow on the way to the hospital for the final preparations. Because you are reading this, I assume that I am dead and that my instructions have been followed, so that I am laying before you now, once again your bride. This night has been so wonderful, I feel so full of your warmth and love, I cannot begin to describe the feeling. In a little more that 24 hours I am going to give up this life, but tonight I feel well on my way to heaven already. You have been so wonderful these last days, always there to help me through the many tough times. I could not have done this without you.

Perhaps this night, the night before I am buried, will be a kind of thank-you, for one last time I am completely yours. I will be all the more peaceful in my grave with your gift once again inside me. I would have it no other way.

Your Love, your Angel, Forever

Hanna"

Under this was another note. It contained instructions on the sealing of the vagina prior to burial, the last task I wanted Peter to perform.

With tears in his eyes, he let my letter fall, as he walked to the bier on which I lay. He slowly pulled away the veil, to once again reveal his bride. I was dressed, not in the wedding gown I would eventually be buried in, but in the blue silk nightgown I had worn on our wedding night. I like to think that words from Romeo and Juliet passed through his mind: "Oh my love, why ar't thou yet so fair?"

What ever he thought, he bent over and kissed my still, cold lips, in a long slow kiss as he let his own cloths fall to the floor. Then he lay beside me on the bed, and snuggled close, tracing the curve of my body with a gentle touch, sliding easily over the silk from my neck, over my breasts, down to my thighs. Just as he had on our wedding night, he pulled down my gown to expose my breasts, and kissed and caressed each in turn, knowing it brought me pleasure. His fingers slid down then, to stroke my silky thighs, and, lifting the hem of my gown, he explored my feminine folds, and found the sweet spot that had
brought me to the edge of ecstasy only a few nights before. As it was, I lay silent and unmoving in his arms, but he did not seem to mind, and gave me all his love just as he had when my pleasure had been apparent. Only then, did he spread my legs, and let himself enter, penetrating slowly but oh so deep inside. I can only hope he was remembering my moans of pleasure as he trust, first slowly, then faster, as my limp body rocked beneath him, until he too came to rapture and exploded into me, before collapsing by my side.

Holding my body close in his arms, he slept, only to awake a little later, to repeat his love. This time, perhaps remembering how I had licked and kissed him before taking him into my mouth as well, he turned, and entered, feeling my teeth and cold tongue against his returning hardness until with equal pleasure, he loosed himself as deep into my throat as he could manage. And so the night went, Peter alternately pleasuring himself with me, but always seeming to remember my pleasure as well, until at last he slept, exhausted, for the few remaining hours before the dawn.

Rising for the final time, he cleaned away all outward traces of our love, and following the instructions; he sealed his love inside me, to rest with me forever in the grave. Then he composed my body as he had found me, smoothing my gown, straightening my hair, and laying my hands at my sides. And finally, after a parting kiss, he spread the fine veil once again over my body. Dressing himself with a sigh, he forced himself to turn and depart.

Only a few hours later he was back: this time kneeling beside the casket he had chosen for me, and in which I now lay, once again gowned as his bride. Little Jessica now was with me, dressed in a white flower girl dress with a blue ribbon sash and a wreath of flowers on her head. She lay with her head on my shoulder, with my arm around her, like a child peacefully at sleep. We lay at the front of the chapel, surrounded by flowers, a large candle burning at either end of the casket. Peter and Jessica's mother and father were the first of many that came to pay their respects that day. There was a steady stream of friends and relatives who came to the casket, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of two or three. They would whisper a prayer, or sometimes just stand a minute in silence; some leaning on one another as they struggled to maintain composure against the tears. A few would reach out with an uncertain hand and gently touch my hand or cheek, or stroke Jessica's soft hair. They would leave mementos: A flower, a card, a small stuffed animal for Jessica; then silently depart, to seek comfort in the company of friends.

Our funeral was the next day. It was a lovely service, in the church I had attended since my early childhood; the same church I had been married in less than a week before. The casket in which Jessica and I lay was open for the service, and lay on a bier at the front of the church, in just the right position such that multi-colored light from the stained glass windows cast a glow in beautiful colors on the pale satin that surrounded us. Several relatives of the recipients got up and talked a little about how I had helped their loved ones. Even Jessica's Aunt talked about how grateful she was I had tried to save her
niece. There were some of my favorite songs, and someone told the story of the littlest angel, which was one of Jessica's favorite stories. All too soon though, it was over. Peter came forward, and in a fitting reversal of the ceremony of only a few days before, he kissed me gently, and then lowered the wedding veil over my face. Then, together with Jessica's parents, he slowly lowered the lid of the casket for the final time. The friends I had asked to be my bridesmaids, now came forward, took their places, and on a nod from the funeral director, lifted my casket and carried me from the church to the hearse that was waiting outside.

I had arranged for burial in the local cemetery. Using the funds from the organ donor grant, I had purchased not only a plot for myself, but a small section with a dozen or so plots, surrounded on three sides by a tall hedge, that set it off from the rest of the cemetery. It was directly across the narrow drive from where my parents had been buried a few years ago. I had specified that close friends and family could use the surrounding plots whenever the need came. Peter said that he wanted be buried there, as did Kathy, and Jessica's parents. When we arrived, the same friends lifted the casket once again, and carried us to the grave. There was just a brief service here, then, as everyone sang "Amazing Grace" the funeral director flipped a switch and Jessica and I were slowly lowered into the earth, to our final resting place. Then people began to drift away. Only Peter remained to watch as the workers filled in the grave. Then, after placing a single red rose among the mound of white roses and lilies, he too sadly departed.

The story of the "noble organ donor" got out, and for a while there was an almost constant stream of people who came to visit my grave, and it seemed that there was always a large mound of flowers left by those who came. It wasn't too long though before that public hero worship passed. Peter still came almost every day, as did Jessica's parents. As they recovered, most of the recipients came too.

Peter felt so bad about loosing me that he felt like life really wasn't worth it and talked to the transplant center about being a donor himself. The told him that they had started a policy of not accepting donors for this program if they were spouses or family of other donors for at least one year. They recognized that depression comes with grief and loss and that donating under this condition would basically be a form of suicide. So they told Peter to come back in a year if he was still interested.

Then one day, maybe 2 months later, Peter came to my grave to find another young woman, about my age, standing there. She looked a little pale, and seemed unsteady on her feet, so Peter asked her if she was ok. She said she was, but was still recovering from a major operation. Peter asked if she was one of the recipients of my organs, and she said that she had received my heart, then went on to say how she had been probably only a few days from death from an abnormality she had been born with, when word of what I was going to do came. Some how she had found the strength to hang on the few more
days until the operation, and while it had been a slow recovery since then, she was now able to leave the hospital for the first time in nearly 5 years. They talked a long time there by my grave, and agreed to meet again. The rest of their story is for another day, but suffice it to say that Peter found a new reason for living, and ultimately had to reserve additional plots. He decided that having Susanne (her name) was kind of the best of two, because he had come to love her for her own sake, and got my heart as part of the package.

As for Kathy, she recovered well, and 6 months later, she was pregnant with her 3rd child. The doctors advised against it, for she was still on high doses of anti-rejection drugs, and not fully recovered, but she said she owed it to me. The delivery was early by several weeks and was difficult for both Kathy and her premature daughter (named Hanna, of course) but with a little help from a couple angels they both got through it. You see, Jessica and I had developed a specialty guardian angel practice for moms and newborns. Jessica proved especially adept at the little ones: providing the little extra push the
doctors so often needed to help them survive and thrive. She also seemed to know instinctively when those rare occasions came, how to take a newborn in her arms and carry it away to heaven in peace. Ultimately, Kathy exceeded all expectations and lived to see Hanna graduate from high school before my lungs failed her (the expected life span for a lung transplant recipient is about 5 years). It was both a sad day and a happy homecoming the day Jessica and I came to her as she died.

The whole organ donor program received a boost after that too, with more donors being willing to make this final, ultimate sacrifice. I even became part of the popular culture as people would say: "I'm going to be a friend of Hanna" to describe their plans to be a donor. So, I guess in the end, it was the right thing to do. It is nice to feel like I made a difference.

Copyright by Caskethanna (2004).

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