Donate Life: Giving when it Hurts

I always knew if the opportunity arose, my answer would be a resounding yes.  I never dreamed my yes would come from my mouth on behalf of my child.  I said yes to the little red heart they place on your driver’s license the first time those questions were uttered to me, and I talked to my husband about it.  He hates those conversations.  You know the ones.  If I’m gone, these are my desires.  Having cared for terminal patients for many years, the sorrow of loss provokes conversation.  I needed to have them so periodically we did.  He would sometimes tell me to stop, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

Fast forward to the night of July 4th.  Our time at the hospital seemed so incredibly short.  The ER team stopped CPR a little over an hour after I started it.  Haddon’s heart never produced a shockable rhythm, never anything but a flat line.  The knowing in the depth of my soul was unshakable.  He was gone.  Jason asked if he could hold him, and he did.  Shortly after, I climbed into the hospital bed with him and unsearchable wailing ensued.  I’ll never forget those moments this side of Glory, the depth of pain seared into every fiber of my being.  Shortly thereafter, we were questioned  by DCS and an investigator.  It was a necessary part of the process.  They were gentle and kind.  During that time we had to allow the coroner some time alone with Haddon.  The world felt stark and cold in those moments.  My baby's body would be fully examined for signs of foul play.  The reality weighed heavily upon me.  Each of these people simply doing their jobs had seen more in their work than I dared to dream.  Painfully, we fully supported the process that keeps so many children safe.  Afterward, we spent a little time rocking him, holding him, and singing over him for the last time.  As horrifying as it was to leave Haddon, the urgency to get home to tell our children about Haddy’s death was irresistible.  I knew I wanted to hold Haddy and sing to him for longer, but the waiting that my children were doing with the hope of good news after the most traumatic day of their lives created an urgency I can’t place into words.  It remains as one of the most conflicted decisions I have ever had to make.  I chose to move toward my living, breathing children and away from my baby, my Haddy Bear.  To leave him in that bed alone still haunts me.  My utterly crushed heart was on a terrible mission to reveal the most devastating news they had ever known.  Still, my arms ached to hold every one of them as they heard the news.  That is what we did.  Jason and I went home, grabbed Haddy’s stuffed animals, snuggled up on the bed in our basement, and told them that Haddon died.  Wailing followed.  It was horrifying, and it was my honor to tangle all six of our bodies on that bed and weep together.  After some time, the kids asked about doing fireworks.  It is what kids do in grief, a saving grace still in the hardest of moments.  We said yes.  Some of the men took over and lit sparklers with the kids.  Our house was full of people loving on us.  My stomach still knots up in pain as I write about this most devastating night.  The trauma still remains in my body.  After some time, I noticed I had missed a few phone calls that seemed unfamiliar.  One of them was a person calling with regard to organ donation.  I told Jason it was something I had to do.  He was in full agreement.  As my kids settled into the basement after pulling all of their mattresses downstairs so that we could all sleep in the same place, I made the call.

I will never forget that call.  To say I was fragile would be an understatement.  I was in shock and somehow aware enough.  The woman on the other end of the line explained the process with gentle clarity.  I knew from experience that many of Haddy’s organs weren’t viable due to the cause of death.  When she told me they could use his skin and his entire heart including the pericardium but in pieces, that was it.  The decision was easy.  The cost was unspeakable.  Tears kept falling down my cheeks with my ‘yes’ being a commitment to stay on the phone and answer all of the questions this gentle woman asked.  I stopped her several times to ask how much longer it would be, 'his heart in pieces' playing over and over in my mind.  The irony of my shattered heart giving his wasn't lost on me, the cost, just barely settling itself into my soul in those early hours.  Still, I thought I might die.  I would have given my life to save his, with gladness.  The gentle woman on the other end of the line patiently and graciously gave me every ounce of kindness and time I needed.  My husband and children came up to me several times from the basement with pleading eyes for me to come to them.  I will never forget the way that I felt in those moments.  Words can't adequately portray the agony within me.  Yet, I ached to hold my children, to settle their hearts for sleep.  I needed the arms of my husband more than ever.  I wanted to feel their breathing chests.  I wanted their hearts encompassing mine.  I thought I might surely die from the wrecking ball of death and loss.  Instead, I sat in the same rocking chair that I had rocked Haddy in that very morning and answered questions for about 40 minutes so that we could give life to families hoping through trials and suffering for more time.  I have never regretted the decision to donate.  Still, the weight of it remains.  

It took me months to tell our kids about donating his heart and skin.  A box arrived with a medal and a donor bear and the kids had asked for months what it was.  I asked them to leave it alone, hiding it on a shelf somewhere.  The confrontation of that bear made me nauseous.  The logos, the mail, the letters all make me sick, yet I must read them.  I believe firmly in the goodness of giving when it hurts, when the cost is high.  I have prayed for the recipients of my son’s heart and skin.  The fact that his heart is in tiny little pieces somehow feels like my own.  I know he doesn’t need his body now, yet it was the one I held, rocked, and kissed.  I leaned my ear to that heart just to hear it thump.  His little thumping heart and his heavy breathing was just like his daddy’s and it wooed me.  Like the sound of rhythmic, crashing waves, it was soothing to my soul.  Now, that body is in the ground, his soul so mysteriously swept away with Jesus. The mystery still troubles me.  The separation of his soul from his body feels wrong.  Death still feels wrong.  

This side of choosing life for another at the death of my son, I marvel.  I sit in awe that the Father gave the Son willingly that we might be saved.  I would undo that day despite all of the grace and mercy I have received.  All of the intimacy and knowing of God we have from enduring such suffering, I would gladly return it for my son.  That's honest.  It brings complete awe to my heart that Jesus chose the cross for love of the Father, that the Father sacrificed His Son, and that Jesus chose to die for enemies whom He chose to love.  Baffling.  Utterly baffling.  The tiny morsel of understanding I have gained in this suffering can not compare to the agony of Jesus as the Father turned from the Son as He bore our sin, guilt, and shame. The sacrifice, the cost is completely beyond my comprehension.  Yet, the simple act of saying yes to ‘donate life’ held a certain cost.  It is teaching me something so profound.  Giving when it hurts is so much like the story of the widow’s mite.  We ought not give out of duty, but delight in the One who is worthy of our praise no matter our circumstances.  He is worthy of everything we have and all that we are,  surrendered with delight.  Our giving is an act of worship to a God who said ‘yes’ on the cross to his enemies.  For those who believe, we were purchased by the blood of Christ that we may stand blameless before the Father.  The cost was high, agonizing to say the least.  Jesus chose death that I might have eternal life, union with Him forever.  As mysterious as it is, eternity is written on our hearts.  The aching, longing, and groaning within over sorrow, sin, and injustice in the world is an evidence that there is more than our eyes can see, our hands can touch.  The gift of eternity with a good and holy God is matchless grace when I consider the subject that He died for.  Even with blind spots, feeble unawareness of my own shortcomings, I still see that my only hope before God is that His matchless grace, His perfect sacrifice covers the monstrosity of my sin, washing me clean, and making me whole.  Our choosing to donate Haddon's tissue and heart is simply a teeny, tiny taste, a morsel of understanding of the cost of giving when it hurts.  

Is the Holy Spirit calling you to give when it hurts?  Is He asking you to lay something so dear to you down?  Jesus's response with regard to the widow giving out of her poverty brings me great comfort and hope.  

Mark 12:43-44

And he called his disciples to him and said to them, “Truly, I say to you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the offering box. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

When we give of ourselves in the midst of profound pain as an offering to Christ Himself, Jesus delights in our small, meager offering.  He sees us (Psalm 33:13), He hears our cries for help (Psalm 34:17), and He sings over us (Zephaniah 3:17).  Nothing quenches like He does.  If He is calling you to give in the midst of profound pain and anguish, may I plead with  you to lay yourself out with all that you have and all that you are?  Consider the gift He has purchased for you.  I want to close with this sweet verse that spurs me to live in the wake of profound tragedy.  It is my reminder that one sweet day all of the sad and terrible things will become untrue.  My fight, your fight is a worthy one.  He is beckoning us to give all that we have and all that we are.  His mercy never disappoints. 

2 Corinthians 4: 17-18
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.