DeLIVERED

Thanks to the miracles of God and the gift of an organ donor… and the donor’s family.

The transplant was a time of celebration- another chance at life, a new chapter, more time.

But our time of hope was another family’s time of saying goodbye, a time of sadness, grief and loss.

Sorrow and joy

Ended and continuing

Beating on, from one life to another, a new path to discover and wander on.

The scar- a map that merges two journeys.  Of sacrifice.  Of dark, hard times where hope whispered in and healing took root through prayer and began to grow.  A reminder of a great gift.

As we stood at the door of the ICU, we stood on the edge of life and death, at the passage from this world to the next.  We fought with prayer and petitioned for our Mom’s life.  I stood against letting her be admitted into the ICU ward and fought as a warrior for a chance to get her to Toronto where there was a fleeting chance of a new liver for mom, a closing window of hope. 
 

All odds were against us.  Darkness threatened.  Confusion loomed.  Weakness.  Infection.  Deterioration.  The toxins continued to build, spiraling her into a near unresponsive state.  Her body slowed, barely able to fight.  No longer the strength nor will to.  Caving in.  Time passed as her life seemed to tick away.

Isolation.  Heaviness of the moments. 

 

A new routine of rising earlier than the sun, while Toronto was just awakening.  Boiling an egg for 7 minutes.  Running it carefully down the elevator, and past the smell of coffee shops, city buses, nodding at the man awakening each morning along the side of the street, and arriving on the transplant ward in time to debrief with the night nurse and prepare for the medical team meeting.  Nurses, specialists, surgeons, and the one known as the Liver God comparing notes, reading blood levels, adjusting medications, and reviewing the day ahead. 
 

Evaluations.  Tests, scans, appointments with social workers and other specialists took us through the bowels of the hospital.  Monitoring fluid intake.  Waiting for the news to be on “the list”, to be sick enough yet well enough to qualify above others waiting for a new liver.  Feeling desperate, yet selfish for wanting to be next. 

Officially “on the list”- on the top for Canada, United States and Europe.   Finally!  Yet, the joy seeped out as the realization hit us - she was that sick. The sickest to qualify.  Too sick?  Only time would tell, yet time was what we didn’t have.

Infection- her pic line torn from her arm and antibiotics administered to attack and kill the unwanted germs.  Crashing as we hear she is removed from the list.  A trip back to isolation with rumblings of a super bug.  A private room.  Silence.   Hope gets hard to find.
 

Each night my sister and I retrace our steps to the hotel.  Sharing the elevator ride with a family or a couple in love dressed for a night on the town who talk of things from another world, of ball games and swimming pools, shopping and movies.  Weariness sets in as we heat yet another plate of nachos in the hotel microwave.  Licking our fingers we stare at our phone screens, checking email, looking for messages reminding us we aren’t in this alone.  We say goodnight after setting alarms, checking and rechecking that the ringer is on in case the hospital calls.  Aching for a call of good news but dreading the call that puts an end to the wait.  

 

Back on the list.  And news of a donor.  Waiting.  Waiting takes so long.  Anticipation.  Giddiness as we email family and friends and strangers to pray for what we learn was not to be.  The liver was not healthy enough to be viable.  The tears come, despair sets in.  A seasoned, caring nurse advises us to see it as a rehearsal for the real thing.  Another reminds us to keep looking up.  We continue the journey, feeling cut and bruised.  Angry that it wasn’t what we wanted.
 

And other infection scare.  More deterioration.   Phone calls home.  Feeling removed and distant.  The lack of control leaves one spinning to hope and back as more tests are done.  Back on the list.  But not sure it means anything anymore.    Emptiness as we stare out the widow, tall buildings closing us in.  Sirens echo down the streets.  Stark reminders that for some they arrive too late.  The very news we depend on in order to receive a call of life for our mom.  The realness of how wrong it is as we sit and wait.

And then, a spark of hope is lit, yet we cautiously push it aside, not wanting to encourage it to grow, yet our hearts wonder if it might be the one.   And as the moments spread into hours, the medical team preps mom with last minute tests.  Secretly I stir 6 packets of sugar into a small cup of juice and convince mom to drink it.  All of it.  Not wanting her to know her blood sugar levels are dangerously low and if she can’t finish it, the surgery will be called off and the gift of life given to another. 

And in the dark of night, they come.  They wheel mom down the hall.  We follow, not sure if we dare to dream.  We pause at the doors which separate us from the gift, we pray over Mom one last time.  A holy, sacred wind blows around us and follows her as the doors close, leaving us waiting.  Praying desperately.  Hoping earnestly.

The sun rises.  Our only relatives in Ontario arrive, representing Dad whose presence and support has been missed.  They hold us with renewed strength as they nourish us and refresh our spirit.  At long last we hear the news that the liver was delivered, that already it filters the toxins that flood through our mom.  Her body begins to fight again.  The dam breaks within me and for the moment I do not need to be strong.    We have made it to this place.  But the thought is not far away that somewhere, a family begins to say goodbye.  They selflessly chose to give the gift of life not only to mom but multiple others.   

And we breath, weeping at the miracle God has done.