Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
The years passed. As a young man, I always volunteered to work the Christmas shifts. Christmas Day wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad; it was just another grey day in winter, and I could always get great overtime pay for working.
Eventually, I fell in love and married, and our son’s first Christmas was the best one I’d had in twenty years. As he got older, Christmas got even better. By the time his sister arrived, we had a few family traditions of our own. With two kids, Christmas became a great time of year. It was fun getting ready for it, fun watching the children’s excitement and most especially, fun spending Christmas day with my family.
On Christmas Eve I continued the tradition started by my dad and left the tree lights on for that one night, so that in the morning, my kids could have that wonderful experience.
When my son was nine years old, the same age I was when my father died, I fell asleep Christmas Eve in the recliner watching midnight mass on TV. The choir was singing beautifully, and the last thing I remember was wishing to hear my sister sing “Silent Night” again. I awoke in the early morning to the sound of my son bouncing off the walls as he came down the hallway toward the living room. He stopped and stared at the tree, his jaw slack.
Seeing him like that reminded me of myself so many years ago, and I knew. I knew how much my father must have loved me in exactly the same complete way I loved my son. I knew he had felt the same mixture of pride, joy and limitless love for me. And in that moment, I knew how angry I had been with my father for dying, and I knew how much love I had withheld throughout my life because of that anger.
In every way I felt like a little boy. Tears threatened to spill out and no words could express my immense sorrow and irrepressible joy. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands to clear them. Eyes moist and vision blurred, I looked at my son, who was now standing by the tree. Oh my, the glorious tree! It was the Christmas tree of my childhood!
Through my tears the tree lights radiated a brilliant, warm glow. Soft, shimmering yellows, greens, reds and blues enveloped my son and me. My father’s death had stolen the lights and life out of Christmas. By loving my own son as much as my father had loved me, I could once more see the lights of Christmas. From that day forward, all the magic and joy of Christmas was mine again.
Michael Hogan
Victoria, British Columbia
For Better or For Worse®
by Lynn Johnston
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE. ©United Feature Syndicate. Reprinted by permission.
7
SURVIVING
LOSS
And as we look toward the dawn, our spirit rises high on wings of certainty. We will share eternity. This is how it’s meant to be— For life goes on, and we must be strong.
Bob Quinn
Ryan’s Hope
. . . Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.
Psalm 30:5
The day started out normally enough. It was May 1, 1997. Ryan was upstairs preparing to leave for school, while his six-year-old sister, Jamie, waited for him at the front door. Suddenly Ryan started to tell us all about Albert Einstein with such enthusiasm and excitement, it was as if a light had gone on in this head. He said, “E=mc2—I understand what Einstein was saying: the theory of relativity. I understand now!”
I said, “That’s wonderful,” but thought, How odd. It wasn’t his thinking about Einstein—Ryan was so intelligent—but rather the timing that seemed peculiar.
At ten years old, Ryan loved knowledge and seemed to have an abundance of it, far beyond his years. The possibilities of the universe were boundless to him. When he was in first grade, the children in his class were asked to draw a picture and answer the question, “If you could be anyone, who would you be?” Ryan wrote: “If I could be anyone, I’d want to be God.” At age seven, while sitting in church one day, he wrote:
The tree of Life, O, the tree of Glory,
The tree of God of the World, O, the tree of me.
Somehow I think Ryan just “got it.”
In the midst of his strange outburst about Einstein, Ryan suddenly called out that he had a headache. I went upstairs and found him lying on his bed. He looked at me and said, “Oh, Mommy, my head hurts so bad. I don’t know what’s happening to me. You’ve got to get me to the hospital.”
By the time we arrived at the hospital in Newmarket he was unconscious. We stood by helplessly as the doctors fought to save his life, and then they transferred him by ambulance to Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children.
A couple of hours later we were finally allowed to see him. He was hooked up to a life support system. When the doctor told us our son had suffered a massive cerebral haemorrhage and was “legally and clinically brain dead,” it felt like a terrible nightmare. We went into shock. Nothing more could be done, the doctor said, and asked if would we consider organ donation. Astonishingly, we had discussed this with Ryan only recently. We looked at each other and simultaneously replied, “Oh yes, Ryan would have wanted that.”
In April, Ryan had seen his dad filling out the organ donor card on the back of his driver’s license. His dad had explained to him about organ donation and how you could help save another’s life by agreeing to donate your organs when you die. When Ryan wondered if you needed a driver’s license to do this, his dad replied that anyone could donate their organs.
Organ donation made such perfect sense to Ryan, he went on his own campaign persuading the entire family to sign donor cards. We had no doubt that donating Ryan’s organs was the right thing to do.
After a small bedside service, we said our good-byes to our son. When we left the hospital, we left a part of ourselves behind. Driving home, I could feel a thick fog roll in and surround me, crushing me. We were in total disbelief. My husband, Dale, and I cried in each other’s arms all that night and for many nights after. It was as if part of me had died with my son.
Grief consumed me for a long time. We kept waiting for Ryan to walk in the door. We grieved for the loss of today, and also for the loss of our hopes and dreams. I realize now you never get over the death of your child. With time you heal, but you are forever changed. It was our daughter Jamie who gave us a reason to get up in the morning and carry on.
Then, on a beautiful morning four months after Ryan’s death, the first letter arrived, addressed to my husband and me. As we read it, we both began to weep. It was from a twenty-year-old university student thanking us for our “gift of sight.” He had received one of Ryan’s corneas and could now see again. It is difficult to describe our emotions— we wept, but at the same time, we felt wonderful.
Sometime later we received a second letter from a young woman of thirty who had received one of Ryan’s kidneys and his pancreas. She’d had diabetes since she was five, spending much of her recent years hooked up to a dialysis machine. She told us that because of Ryan, she was now free from insulin and dialysis, able to work again and return to a normal life.
Early May brought the painful first anniversary of our son’s death. Then we received our third letter. A young boy of sixteen, born with cystic fibrosis, had received Ryan’s lungs. Without the double lung transplant he received, he would have died. Besides being able to return to school, he was now doing things he had never done before—running, playing hockey and roller blading with his friends. Knowing this boy’s life had been renewed lifted our spirits immensely.
Due to confidentiality laws, organ donation is completely anonymous in Canada. However, organ recipients and their donor families can communicate through the organ transplant organization. Although we didn’t know the identities of the individuals who had received Ryan’s organs, we were given updates about their health.
We learned about a six-year-old girl who had received Ryan’s other kidney and was now healthy, free from dialysis and attending school full time. We also learned that the forty-two-year-old woman who had received Ryan’s liver was doing well and was able to again spend time with her young family.
Such joy seemed to come from our sorrow, so much happiness from our loss.
Although nothing could take away our pain, we took great comfort and peace in knowing that Ryan had done something most of us will never do—he had saved lives!
That summer, while on vacation in Haliburton, we met a young man—by sheer coincidence—who had had a kidney and pancreas transplant at the same hospital where some of Ryan’s organs had been transplanted. He knew the young woman who had received her kidney and pancreas on May 2 from a ten-year-old boy he believed to be our son. Her name was Lisa, and she was doing great. Afraid to ask her last name, I later wondered if I might have passed up my only chance to meet one of Ryan’s organ recipients.
This chance meeting inspired me, and the following spring I decided to share our experiences with others. I’m not a writer, so it was a challenge to write a story and send it to the newspapers for National Organ Donor Week. I faxed my article to three papers, and to my astonishment, all three wanted to feature it! A flurry of interviews and photo sessions followed, and we experienced an excitement we thought we were no longer capable of.
When the first article appeared, Dale and I were totally overwhelmed when we opened the paper to find that Ryan’s story of hope was the banner story—right on the front page! Included in the article was the poem Ryan had written when he was seven, just as we had it inscribed on his tombstone. We wept tears of joy and sadness as we read it over and over. In his brief ten years on this earth, our son Ryan had made a difference.
A few days later, the article appeared in the other two papers, and for a few weeks we received calls from people all across Canada. Surprised but delighted, we hoped the story would help raise awareness about organ donation and perhaps inspire others to donate.
Apparently Lisa also read the article. When she saw Ryan’s poem, she recognized it from a letter we had sent her and realized he was her organ donor. The article said we would be at the Gift of Life medal presentation in Toronto two weeks later, so she decided to attend. Once there, she was unsure about introducing herself. We all wore name tags, and when Lisa found herself standing next to my husband Dale she just couldn’t hold back. You can imagine the emotional scene of hugs and tears that followed! It was truly a miraculous, unforgettable moment! It felt so wonderful to see her standing there alive and healthy, knowing that our son had helped make that possible. Ryan’s kidney and pancreas had apparently been a perfect match. And part of him now lives on in her.
Moments later, a woman approached us with her eight-year-old daughter. “I think my daughter has your son’s kidney,” she said. Kasia was just four when both of her kidneys had shut down and she had gone on dialysis. The details of her transplant matched, and we all felt certain it must have been Ryan’s kidney that had given this lovely girl a new life. A few weeks later when we visited Ryan’s grave, we wept tears of joy when we found a beautiful drawing left there, signed “Kasia.”
Due to the Canadian confidentiality laws, meetings such as these are very rare, and it is impossible to describe the intense emotions that result. When Ryan died I thought I would never again feel joy. But meeting Lisa and Kasia was a kind of miracle, opening my heart to those feelings I thought had been forever buried with my son.
Today, I now know I will always be the mother of two children. Ryan is, and always will be, part of our family and our lives. Although the pain of losing him will never completely leave me, I have begun putting the pieces of my life back together, though it now takes a different shape. Part of our healing came from our experience of donating Ryan’s organs. I am so grateful that God allowed me to meet Lisa and Kasia so my heart and soul could reopen. Meeting them allowed me to experience that “once in a lifetime” kind of feeling again, the one I thought was gone forever.
Nancy Lee Doige
Aurora, Ontario
The Red Sweater
In search of my mother’s garden, I found my own.
Alice Walker
Time didn’t ease the pain of losing my mother. Each day brought new sorrow since her death over a year ago; often I found myself fighting back unexpected tears.
Mom died just before the Christmas season the year before, after a short battle with cancer. At the age of seventy-two, she had been well prepared for her death, but I was not.
All her life, Mom was there for me; although now a grown woman, I still needed my senior parent for advice and comfort. We were the best of friends, and over the years, we shared, laughed and cried together.
I often found myself wearing her red sweater, holding it to my cheeks, drinking in its aroma. It had been Mom’s favourite, and it was faded and worn from years of use. I claimed the sweater after her death. It held so many memories, and now I drew comfort from them.
Mom came from West Arichat, a tiny Acadian fishing village on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Of both French and Indian background, she had a gentle, soft touch. To cope with my grief, I began imagining my aged parent reaching out to comfort me. Her tanned hands, worn and shrivelled from age and work, had cradled babies, cared for a large family, and brought life to plants and flowers. I would imagine her wearing the red sweater, her hand reaching out and covering mine, and then she would whisper a memory in my ear.
I’d smile, remembering.
Mom lost both her cultures when she married my father, a white man, and moved from her island to live on his. When she arrived in isolated and rural Cardigan on Prince Edward Island at the age of eighteen, she began to learn English. Sadly, her knowledge of both French and her native Chinook began to fade away.
One of my favourite memories are the native powwows we attended on Panmure Island. Part of Prince Edward Island, Panmure Island is an old Mi’kmaq gathering place. First Nations people from all over North America travelled there to participate in the powwows. It was an opportunity for Mom to mingle with the First Nations people, wear her native shirt, dance in the sacred circle and socialize. She loved going to those powwows and proudly identified with her ancient roots, which had been silenced for so many years. I remember her telling an elder once, “I’m Indian, too.” Although she had moved into the white man’s world when she married, she never lost her Chinook heritage of strong native spirituality, deep respect for the land, and love for the outdoors—all of which she passed on to me and my eight brothers and sisters.
During the last powwow we attended, a few months before she became ill, I heard the Great Spirit whisper in my ear that it would be the last time we would travel to the powwows together. It was.
Now, her image travels with me in the car or visits when I feel grief and pain. She always wears the red sweater and for an instant, our hands join. Death has not separated us.
Sometimes the momentary images are so strong I find myself reaching out my hand to her imaginary one. It is as if she is always there, always with me, watching over me.
One day I sat waiting for my turn to have my hair done in the beauty parlour. I was exhausted from working, and I became frustrated with the wait. Then I noticed a small child watching me. She and her mom were holding hands while they stood at the counter. They moved to the area where I was sitting, so I moved over one chair to give them room to sit down.
The little girl looked around, then said to me, “Where did the woman go that was sitting beside you?” Surprised at her question, because no one had been sitting next to me, I asked her who she was asking about. “The woman wearing the red sweater,” she quipped. “She was holding your hand, just like my mommy and me.”
My fatigue and frustration were suddenly gone as a warm glow washed over me. Smiling, I realized my mom never left me. She really is only a shadow away.
Stella Shepard
Morell, Prince Edward Island
Tommy’s Tangerine Tree
Seek not to calm my grief, to stay the falling tear; Have pity on me, ye my friends, the hand of God is here.
Nora Pembroke
When Tommy, our youngest son, was a little boy, he loved tangeri
nes. At Christmas, when they came on the market, I always kept a plentiful supply especially for him. He ate them for breakfast and supper, and there were always lots of them in his lunch box. As well, he loved to snack on them while he read or watched television.
One day I caught him flipping the seeds on the carpet. I scolded him, telling him to put them in an ashtray or a flowerpot. The result was that come spring, four little orange trees sprang up in a pot of geraniums in the kitchen window. I selected the tallest and sturdiest and replanted it in its own little pot. Tommy was intrigued.
“Do you think I can have my own tangerines?” he asked. I told him that it might take a very long time.
Time passed. Tommy grew up and became a petroleum geologist on the east coast, searching for oil and gas off Newfoundland. He loved the Atlantic Ocean with a fervor which I attributed to the fact that he had seagoing ancestors on both sides of the family. He married and built a house in Nova Scotia in sight of the Atlantic.
But he always came to visit us on his birthday, which was on New Year’s Eve, and each time he would ask to see his tangerine tree.
In the twenty years that had passed since the little tree sprang up, it had grown amazingly. Each year I would put it into a bigger pot and place it in a warm, sunny spot in the garden, then bring it inside for the winter. But by the fall of 1981, I had no receptacle large enough to hold it, as it was now six feet tall.
Our daughter, who lived near us, offered to look after it as she had a very large urn, which she placed in a sunny window. When Tom came that New Year’s Eve, he wanted to see his tangerine tree in his sister’s home.