I wrote back telling her I was glad she was feeling better. Then Cindy wrote again, asking about Gary. What was he like?
“Gary was a good father, a generous friend and a loving husband,” I answered. “He loved to make me laugh, but he was romantic, too.”
Soon, we were corresponding, and sharing Cindy’s letters with the boys eased some of our pain.
Still, I cried every day. And on what would have been our fifteenth anniversary, I placed roses on Gary’s grave. Every year, he’d given me a bouquet of roses, but now all I had were memories. “I miss you!” I wept.
I went home, my grief nearly as raw as the day Gary died.
Early that evening, the doorbell rang. It was a delivery of roses. But from whom? Then I read the card: Happy Anniversary from Cindy. “What a wonderful thing to do!” I cried.
Later that same evening the phone rang. “I’m Gary Myers, your husband’s heart recipient,” a man said. He explained that he and Cindy had been in touch, and when she told him what day this was, he thought it was the right time to thank me.
The roses, the phone call, the comforting warmth I suddenly felt—it was as if Gary were behind it all, enveloping me in a hug.
And when Cindy called a few days later and asked if we could meet, I replied, “Yes!”
After a three-hour drive, the boys and I arrived at the courthouse where Cindy worked—and were greeted by a room filled with people and a banner that read, “Welcome Sandy, Jerrod and Casey.”
Touched, I noticed a woman standing nearby. Somehow I just knew. “Cindy!” I cried, falling into her arms. Then a man walked over and said, “I’m Gary Myers.”
Minutes later, another man spoke up. “I’m Lee Morrison,” he explained. “I received Gary’s liver.”
“I can’t believe this!” I exclaimed to Cindy.
“I wanted you to see how much your gift has meant,” she smiled.
As we heard how Gary’s gift had saved lives, my heart lifted. Jerrod and Casey beamed as they shared memories of their dad.
The following weekend, Gary Myers and his wife invited us to visit with them. Gary took the boys fishing, and we got to know his family. And I found myself asking Gary if it would be all right if I listened to his heart . . . my Gary’s heart.
“Of course,” he nodded.
I filled with warmth as I listened to the steady heartbeat that had filled me with love all the years of my marriage. And when the boys listened, their eyes sparkled.
In the moments of peace that followed, I realized that Gary’s gift had not only saved the recipients’ lives—it was saving ours, too.
That was five years ago, and since then, we’ve met the two men who received Gary’s kidneys. Like the others, they’ve become like family to us.
Today, Jerrod is in the Marines and Casey is a high-school athlete. We remember Gary with smiles instead of tears. Seeing how strong and happy my sons have grown fills me with pride. I know Gary would be proud, too.
I’ll always be grateful for the joy I have in my life—and for the five angels who helped me find it once again.
Sandy Allinder
As told to Dianne Gill
Previously appeared in Woman’s World
THE FAMILY CIRCUS®
By Bil Keane
“If somebody dies in the hospital, angels move
them to the eternity ward.”
Reprinted with permission from Bil Keane.
Choosing to Live
I’m one of the
stars
I shall be living
In one of them
I shall be laughing
And so it shall be
As if the stars
were laughing
When you look
At the sky at night
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
In March 1981 our nine-year-old daughter, Julie, was diagnosed with cancer. Our world was shattered. Fear and hope became permanent residents in our home. We found that laughter and tears could be partners, that family and friends could lighten the burdens, that we persevered and did what must be done because there was no other choice. Our children needed us.
Julie had always been a child who thought things over and then asked many questions. She was filled with smiles, determination, charm and bossiness. Her sister was her confidante and ally, and she adored her little brother. Julie talked constantly and could never keep a secret.
We, in turn, did not keep her cancer a secret. She knew everything. During the course of her treatments she assured us that the tumor was gone, and we shouldn’t worry. With other patients, she tied her name and address to helium-filled balloons at Children’s Hospital. Through an open window she’d watch her wish-filled balloons escape to the sky. Once, a card with a message was mailed back to her. She liked to imagine traveling with that balloon, sailing with the winds across Lake Michigan, and then being found high in the branches of a tree.
Julie basked in the attention that the whole town gave her. Friends, and then strangers who became friends, rallied around our oldest child. They offered helping hands and held numerous fund-raisers. We were overwhelmed by their kindness.
During the summer Julie went to One Step at a Time Camp for children with cancer. She came home telling stories, singing songs and cracking jokes. Camp was the greatest place.
At the end of October she and her dad jetted off to Florida on Dream Flite, an airplane filled with children who had cancer or leukemia. It was magical. Then, suddenly and without warning, her vision started slipping away. The doctors could do nothing, and by December this unexpected side effect of radiation therapy had permanently damaged her optic nerves. Julie was blind. She wept and raged against the darkness, telling us that it was ever so much harder than having cancer because she had to think about it all the time.
Our once voracious reader now listened to tapes and slowly learned braille. Ten years old, she resented the hovering adults and missed her independence. Eager to strike out on her own again, she took her white cane and tapped her way down the street to her best friend’s house. She continued her activities with her Girl Scout troop, rode her tandem bicycle, sang in the school chorus and returned to camp in the summer.
Our outspoken daughter attended several meetings of a group of adults with cancer. She answered their questions, made them laugh and forced them to look inside themselves. We received letters from some of them, in awe of a child who refused to give up, who treasured the saying, “When it rains, look for the rainbow.”
Julie spent Christmas and her eleventh birthday in the hospital, again experiencing treatment-related problems. Seizures began, then a coma. Tests showed atrophy of her brain. On a cold January night I voiced the unspeakable. I told our beloved child, mature beyond her years, that we understood her body was no longer healthy enough to keep her here. I spoke of the wonders of heaven, and told her that it was okay for her to let go and leave. She was assured that we would miss her and love her forever. Weeping, I added that whenever there was a rainbow she should sit on top of it, and then slide down and wave to us.
The following morning her two-year fight ended. Our Julie was gone. We were devastated. An autopsy showed that there was no tumor. She was correct in her belief that she had beaten her cancer. The cause of her death was delayed effects from radiation.
Many things have happened since Julie died that let us know she continues to be with us. We see rainbows or pieces of rainbows everywhere. We see them on cloudy days, rainy days, sunny days, inside and outside. We always wave.
Lori, Julie’s sister, released a balloon to the skies, silently whispering that she needed a sign that Julie was all right. A month later I handed her the card that had arrived in the mail. She broke into a huge smile accompanied by tears and explained that the card being returned was her much-needed sign. I like to imagine sailing with that balloon for a visit to heaven.
We have realized that Julie influences others in ways that let us know she is still loving us. Ni
ne months after she died I was shopping and discovered a Christmas ornament that had been made for 1983. It was an angel, sitting on a rainbow, waving. I’m sure someone thought it was their own idea. We knew better.
That same year I contacted an artist and asked if he could paint a picture of Julie. I was unaware of his usual fees, but he gently explained that he charged thousands of dollars to paint portraits. He did, however, ask us to leave several pictures of Julie and her scrapbook so that he could do a pencil sketch. He added that he was very busy and probably wouldn’t be able to get to it for quite some time. Three months later the artist called and apologized for being unable to do the sketch. He continued, “Let me explain. I tried to do the pencil sketch. It just wouldn’t remain a sketch. Julie demanded to be painted. This has never happened to me before. It was as though someone else was painting through me. I feel like I know her; I was filled with happiness every time I worked on the portrait. I’ve stopped trying to understand what happened.”
When my husband and I walked into his studio we became motionless, staring at the likeness of our daughter. Tears slid down our cheeks. We managed to tell the worried artist that nothing was wrong. The painting was beautiful. Our memories of Julie were filled with the past two years, with sickness. This portrait was of a healthy, happy child. He had picked up his brush and found her soul. His gift to us was even more than the portrait itself. He gave us peace.
Grief is a long, difficult journey. It consumed us, and it felt as though the anguish and pain would never end. Heartbreak brought such emptiness, and her loss seemed unbearable. It was so wrong that a child should die. We kept wondering why and had to understand that some questions have no answers. There came a time during our suffering when we realized that we had to make a choice. It was our decision whether we should be bitter people or better people. In our daughter’s memory, we chose to be better. We didn’t want Julie to be forgotten. She enriched our lives and was still a part of us. Because she had been here, we were different than we would have been. We would have to become her legacy.
In 1985 our family returned to that summer camp for children with cancer. Julie was right—it was wonderful. We continue to volunteer there every July. I see children swimming, creating craft masterpieces, trekking up hills, singing around campfires, and my heart is warmed. I can hear my daughter’s laughter in other children. It fills me with joy to see many of those campers grow up and become counselors. Others grow up in a place beyond my sight.
Julie continues to touch the lives of others through all of us who shared her brief time here on Earth. She travels with us into tomorrow.
People may die, but love never ends.
Chris Thiry
THE FAMILY CIRCUS®
By Bil Keane
“. . . And if you find a purple balloon
up there, it’s mine.”
Reprinted with permission from Bil Keane.
The Mother Box
Late one December evening, bathed in the soft light of the Christmas tree, I lay on the couch with my eyes closed, letting my memories swirl around in pools of thought. Returning to the present, I opened my eyes and immediately my gaze fell upon a beautiful miniature Christmas city that lined my fire place mantel. Well, it was really only half a city, as my dad had divided it between my sister and me twenty-five years earlier after our mother had passed away.
Little twinkle lights glowed from behind red cellophane windows in the tiny cardboard houses that had lined the living-room bookshelves of my childhood.
With no warning, the words tumbled out like a spilled glass of aged wine—words that had been hidden in my heart a long time, waiting to surface, “Mom, I miss you so much.”
An ocean of tears ebbed and flowed for nearly an hour, and then the idea emerged. If I felt this way then surely my brother and sister did, too. Twenty-five years, five senses, one box—that’s what I would do—I would capture the essence of my mother and place her in a box—a Mother Box—one for each of her children.
I began to think of our mother in terms of what scent encompassed her, what look best described her, what sound echoed “Mother,” and so on.
Including my ten-year-old daughter, Shiloah, in my quest, we searched to put together pieces of a grandmother she’d never met.
First came the box all the memories would be housed in. Such a vast display we found. Flowered ones of every type ever found in a garden, ones with stars on them, moons, old-fashioned Victorian images, hearts and ones with Christmas themes, and then we saw them—angels! Yes, for a mother no longer of this Earth, it was perfect. But, there were only two. One sister, one brother—I’d make one for myself another time.
Oddly enough, the entire day was like that. We’d find two of just what we needed, no more, no less. With mounting excitement we took our treasures home and wrapped them with great love.
A river of memories wound its way through a thickly wooded forest of words, painting a picture of a thousand yesterdays, growing straight and tall like new seedlings among the old growth. Sealed with a simple envelope, they awaited their intended.
Just the right time presented itself to give my brother his box. As his eyes fell upon its contents, this man of thirty-seven was reduced to tears. My father was standing there, and I’ll never forget the faraway look on his face. The years were melting away with each item my brother lifted from the Mother Box.
A package of grits representing a woman who grew up in the South and served it to her children for breakfast in Oregon—her favorite Johnny Mathis music—a shiny silver Christmas bow that felt like the party dresses she wore—a single silk red rose representing dozens my father had given her. I included the famous story of how once when they were courting he brought long-stemmed roses that were as long as he was tall! She adored red roses. Finally, a bottle of her favorite perfume, Emeraude. I could hardly believe they still made it, but there it was, that familiar green. The shape of the bottle had changed over the years, but when I sprayed the misty fragrance into the air, it was unmistakably the scent of our mother.
This journey of the heart, traveled with my daughter, brought us together in spirit. We were both bound with the cords of love from the life of a woman long gone, yet still sewn tightly in the memory quilt of our minds. We saw the continuing thread of life reflected in each other’s eyes.
Then my daughter handed me a box. Inside was the essence of my mother—the fragrance of another generation reached out to touch her legacy. I opened the perfume bottle and sprayed, and she surrounded us.
Linda Webb Gustafson
Evolution
Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But, it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.
Arthur Golden
In the beginning, I walked around wringing my hands constantly like Lady Macbeth. Now I still wring them, but only on the anniversary of the hours leading up to her death and when hearing tragic news.
In the beginning, the videotape in my head played the events of the days before and after her death again and again. I was powerless to stop it. Now I can frequently turn it off by consciously thinking of other things.
In the beginning, I felt that my skin was too tight for my body. Compulsively, I had to move in order to make it fit. I walked for long periods in order to feel comfortable. Now I walk just for exercise.
In the beginning, on Tuesdays leading up to 12:25 P.M., I tensely counted the minutes. Now Tuesday is usually just an ordinary day.
In the beginning, time was counted in days and weeks. Now it’s numbered in years.
In the beginning, everything that belonged or related to her was sacred. When the earrings she had given me fell out, I was frantic. Now if they were lost, I would be very sad but I could cope. Now I donate many of the things she owned.
In the beginning, it was hard to
think or talk about anything but her death. Now I have reinvested in life, have other topics of conversation and actually find much of life enjoyable.
In the beginning I cried when I passed her favorite foods in the supermarket. Now there is a pang but the tears no longer flow.
In the beginning, the words to “Wind Beneath My Wings” and “Somewhere Out There” echoed painfully in my head for months. Now when I hear those songs there is sadness, but it is softer and ends quickly.
In the beginning, I was sure I was crazy. Now, although I still question my sanity at times, I accept the fact that my thoughts and feelings are normal for bereaved parents.
In the beginning there were many things I wouldn’t do. Now I do some of them but still avoid others. Perhaps in my continued evolution, I will decide those things are possible, too.
If you are at the beginning, take heart. There is evolution.
Stephanie Hesse
Who Is Jack Canfield?
Jack Canfield is one of America’s leading experts in the development of human potential and personal effectiveness. He is both a dynamic, entertaining speaker and a highly sought-after trainer. Jack has a wonderful ability to inform and inspire audiences toward increased levels of self-esteem and peak performance.
He is the author and narrator of several bestselling audio- and videocassette programs, including Self-Esteem and Peak Performance, How to Build High Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem in the Classroom and Chicken Soup for the Soul—Live. He is regularly seen on television shows such as Good Morning America, 20/20 and NBC Nightly News. Jack has coauthored numerous books, including the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, Dare to Win and The Aladdin Factor (all with Mark Victor Hansen), 100 Ways to Build Self-Concept in the Classroom (with Harold C. Wells), Heart at Work (with Jacqueline Miller) and The Power of Focus (with Les Hewitt and Mark Victor Hansen).