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With
loving tenderness I unpacked my son Joseph's Little League
trophy, his stack of X-Man comics and the framed pictures of
elephants that had decorated his bedroom walls back in our
old apartment. Just two weeks before, Joseph had so looked
forward to moving into his own room in the new house. Now,
making his bed, I couldn't hold back the tears. 'My little
boy will never sleep here,' I grieved. 'I'll never glimpse
his smile again or feel his loving hug.'
Wondering how I could possibly manage to go on, I began
unpacking the dozens of plush animals Joseph loved to
collect - bears and monkeys, chipmunks and giraffes.
Sitting on his bed, I hugged the Chris Columbus bear he used
to nuzzle when he was little and I read Love You Forever or
another of his favorite stories. Joseph loved books, and to
him they were especially precious because he had a learning
disability that made it all but impossible for him to read
them himself.
But
Joseph was a determined little boy who refused to let his
disability stop him from learning. He listened to his
schoolbooks and tests on tape, and every night we sat
together at the kitchen table so I could read his math
problems to him and help him with his spelling. Joseph
worked so hard; he always made honor roll at school. He
also earned a green belt in karate and was pitcher for his
Little League baseball team.
In
many ways Joseph was just a regular little boy who loved
playing video games with his brother, David, or going to the
movies with his sister, Shalom. But Joseph also knew what
it was like to feel different and need a helping hand.
I
can't remember how many times I spotted Joseph carrying
groceries for one of our elderly neighbors or refusing money
after shoveling their cars out from the snow. He loved
putting on puppet shows for the little girl down the street
with Down's syndrome, and once, when doctors thought his
friend Micah might need a kidney transplant, my son came to
me and said, "I sure wish I could give him one of mine."
Joseph, my little mensch, always made me proud, even on the
last day of his life.
I
was folding clothes in the den that Saturday afternoon when
out of nowhere my husband, Lou, shouted for me to call 911.
He and Joseph had been discussing a movie they planned to
see when suddenly Joseph collapsed onto his bed complaining
of a terrific headache. His breathing grew ragged, and then
it stopped. Lou, who is a physician, performed artificial
respiration until the paramedics arrived. Then he called
ahead to the ER while I rode in the ambulance with Joseph
and prayed he wouldn't die.
Joseph, always the picture of health, had suffered a massive
brain aneurysm. "Is he going to die?" I asked my husband.
Holding me tightly he answered, "Yes."
It
seemed impossible. Only an hour ago my son was home
watching TV - and now he was on life support with no hope of
ever regaining consciousness. I wanted to cry out in shock
and grief
But
there wasn't time. There was something important I had to
do - and I had to do it right away.
"We
have to donate his organs," I told Lou, recalling the time
Joseph wanted to give a kidney to Micah. "It's what he
would have wanted us to do."
A
transplant coordinator made all the arrangements, and a few
hours later our family gathered at Joseph's bedside to offer
a prayer and say our last good-byes.
Then
we went home, and throughout that night while surgeons
recovered my son's organs I lay curled on his bed, clutching
his favorite blanket and telling him how much I would always
love him.
I
don't know how I survived those next two weeks - the funeral
and moving into the house we'd already contracted to buy. I
cried every time I went near Joseph's new bedroom - the one
he would have loved, if only he'd lived. There was a gaping
hole in my heart.
Then
one day when I felt I could bear my grief no longer, a
letter came from the transplant coordinator. "I am writing
to share the outcome of your generosity," I read with tears
spilling down my cheeks.
Two
Kentucky women, one of them the mother of a boy Joseph's
age, were now off dialysis because they had each received
one of my son's kidneys. Meanwhile, in Missouri, cells from
Joseph's liver were helping to keep a critically ill
transplant candidate alive while doctors waited for a
matching donor organ to become available. In California two
young children would soon be able to run and play with the
healthy new heart valves my son had bequeathed them. And
two
teenagers, one from Kentucky and the other from New York,
had regained their eyesight thanks to Joseph's corneas.
Seven people's lives had been changed dramatically because
of my son. I carried the letter with me for days, reading
and rereading it and marveling especially at the teens who'd
received Joseph's corneas. Joseph's learning disability had
prevented him from reading. But because of his very special
gift there were now two more children in the world who
could. Somehow, this helped me understand that my son had
not lost his life in vain.
I
wanted each and every one of Joseph's recipients to know who
he was. So one night I wrote them each a letter and told
them all about the little boy who had given them the
ultimate gift. I asked the transplant agency to forward the
letters to all seven recipients. With each I sent along one
of his beloved stuffed animals and a copy of a school essay
that he'd once written describing how to take care of them.
Knowing the good my son had brought into the world made it
easier to walk past his room without bursting into tears.
It helped the rest of the family, too, and eventually we
became able to share happy memories of Joseph around the
dinner table and at other family gatherings.
Lou
and I also honored Joseph's memory by speaking to community
groups and high-school students about the importance of
organ donation. After a TV interview, the mother who had
received one of Joseph's kidneys contacted us.
"I
don't know how to thank you," she sobbed the day we first
met.
"Seeing a part of my son living on is thanks enough for me,"
I said.
Because of her new kidney, the woman had been able to attend
her own son's eighth-grade graduation. Joseph never reached
the eighth grade, but instead of begrudging the woman her
happiness, I kvelled in it - because it was my son who had
made this miracle possible.
My
son is gone, but in a very real way he still lives on, doing
what he always did best - offering a helping hand to others
in need. Some say Joseph's life was brief. I say it was
full.
I
once heard that if you save a life, you save the world.
Well, my son saved five lives and gave the gift of sight to
two others. What mother could possibly ask any more of her
child? What mother could possibly be any prouder?
______________________________
Reprinted by permission of Kathie Kroot and Bill Holton(c)
2000; appeared in Woman's World; issue October, 2000;
reprinted in Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul by Jack
Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen. In order to protect the
rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this
publication may be reproduced without prior written
consent. All rights reserved.
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May your day be blessed
Bob Johnston |
