The Greatest Gift
“My Gutsy Story®” by Eleanor Vincent
I stared out the window in the Neuroscience ICU waiting room. Below me, stick figures moved across achingly green lawns. They looked like a cardboard tableau of normal life. Mt. Diablo’s saw tooth outline cut through a ribbon of clouds. A grandfather of a mountain, its hulking presence loomed above the rolling hills and valleys of Contra Costa County, a collection of suburban towns east of San Francisco. My older daughter Maya’s accident had happened three days earlier on a hot April afternoon in the foothills of Mt. Diablo.
She had hiked to a meadow laced with oat grass and wildflowers. A ravine full of scrub oak and laurel trees tumbled down to a dry creek bed. One of her friends dared her to ride bareback on a horse they found there unfenced and unsecured. The animal reared and threw Maya to the ground with such force that she never regained consciousness.
For the last 72 hours, we had endured the hell of waiting at Maya’s bedside.
Now, I looked at my watch, steeling myself to face the double doors that led into the Intensive Care Unit, and another ten minutes with my comatose child. I lifted the house phone.
“This is Maya’s mom. Can I see her now?”
“Yes,” a voice answered. “I’ll buzz you in.”
I walked toward my daughter’s bed, past the curtains surrounding families bent over other silent forms. After three days of willing my daughter to recover, an impossible thought dawned – Maya might not make it. When I reached her bedside, I took her hand in mine.
“Sweetheart, it’s Mom. I’ve been telling you that you will get well. But maybe what I want isn’t what matters.”
A roar filled my brain. I shook my head, trying to silence my own resistance. I spoke to my nineteen-year-old daughter, saying out loud what I would never accept in my heart. “You decide, honey. I won’t hold you back.”
I looked down at the beautiful young woman she had become. Maya’s face, inanimate as ice, was rosy-cheeked, bride-like against the stark white sheets.
I leaned into her and whispered the biggest lie of my life, never doubting she could hear me. “I’ll be all right, sweetheart, if you need to go.”
I wanted to throw myself across her chest and give in to hours of suppressed weeping. But then I had a new thought: If I break down, it will be too hard for her to die. My task now is to let her go.
Maya’s chest rose and fell. The ventilator hissed, the monitors beeped, a fiber optic cable snaked into her skull to measure the pressure inside her brain. Over the last three days I had become expert at reading the peaks and valleys on the monitors.
I whispered, “It’s between you and God, now, Maya.”
* * * * *
The next afternoon, Maya’s brain surgeon, Dr. Carr, asked to speak with us about the results of the cerebral blood flow study he had ordered. One of the nurses gathered us into a windowless conference room where a hospital social worker sat at the opposite end of the conference table, looking grave and sympathetic.
Dr. Carr came in, his white coat flapping, and sat down at the head of the table. I sat on his left side, staring at him.
“The test we did shows how much blood is flowing to the brain.” He spoke to the wall, not looking at us. “There is none, absolutely none, zero blood flow. I’ve declared her brain dead.”
I could not move, or even blink. A collective gasp filled the cramped room. Maya’s boyfriend, Dale, groaned. My ex-husband, Dan, put his head in his hands.
“I’ve called in a second surgeon to confirm the diagnosis of death by neurological criteria,” Dr. Carr said. He spoke with exaggerated calm, seemingly oblivious to the emotions swirling around him.
My eleven-year-old daughter Meghan leaned against her father and wept. Dale’s mother began screaming “NO!” over and over.
Hot tears of disbelief trickled down my cheeks. Of all the people in the room, I was the only one who did not move, or cry out. I felt granite-hard, yet sensitive as a tuning fork, paralyzed with grief.
For the first time since he had entered the room, Dr. Carr met my gaze. His eyes were like icy blue marbles. “Would you consider organ donation?”
The question hung in the air for a long moment. I pictured families in other hospital conference rooms waiting for bad news.
“Yes,” I heard myself say.
Dr. Carr nodded. “At least it won’t be a total waste,” he said. I recoiled.
He waved his hand in the direction of the ICU and all the high-tech gadgetry keeping Maya’s heart beating, her lungs pumping, her blood circulating. I could see he meant that all the effort and resources spent on a hopeless case would not be in vain. But my “yes” meant that the love and energy I had poured into my daughter, her very life, must continue. I could no more accept that Maya was truly dead than I could fly to the moon or allow any vital part of her that could save another human being to go to her grave.
I trembled uncontrollably. I was about to give my daughter away in pieces. If I had fought harder, could I have held her here? I gave Maya ultimate freedom and she took it.
* * * * *
Maya’s organs were donated to critically ill patients. My decision saved four lives. Her bone and tissue helped restore sight and mobility to dozens more. In the 21 years since that April day when I made the most difficult decision of my life, I have often wondered what gave me the strength to say yes. From someplace deep within came a sure knowing that donation was the right thing to do. It was the gutsiest moment of my life.
ELEANOR VINCENT is an award-winning writer whose memoir, Swimming with Maya: A Mother’s Story, was nominated for the Independent Publisher Book Award and was reissued by Dream of Things press early in 2013. She writes about love, loss, and grief recovery with a special focus on the challenges and joys of raising children and letting them go. She is a national spokesperson on grief recovery and organ donation, appearing on radio and television programs around the country.
To connect with Eleanor please click on her sites:
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Eleanor,
This was such a difficult post for me to read without tears streaming down my cheeks. As a mother, it seems incomprehensible that something like this can happen to our child. I admire your courage and thank you for sharing your story with us. Through your speaking on the subject of loss and grief, I’m sure you have touched and helped so many parents and grandparents. Thank you Eleanor.
Sonia Marsh recently posted..Letting Go; Allowing My Daughter to Die
Sonia,
Thank you for posting “The Greatest Gift.” I know that it can be heartbreaking to read about Maya’s death. “No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader,” as the saying goes. I am always mindful that I am asking a great deal of my readers. It takes courage, especially for parents, to experience their worst nightmare portrayed in an honest and intimate way. I am especially grateful to readers who allow themselves to be deeply moved, and sometimes changed, by our story.
It certainly changed me profoundly and my core message is about hope in the face of despair, resilience in the face of loss, and how love must include letting go. Parents are often called to sacrifice, hopefully not through the death of a child, but in so many ways great and small. That is the job. I did my best to do it well, and Maya was an amazing teacher. I think of her every day.
Because of my book, Swimming with Maya, I know others are thinking of her too, and of the people she saved. Life is mysterious! Through my writing, I’m trying to make sense of it, and help others to as well. Thanks for being a wayshower on the road to gutsyness!
Dear Eleanor, I find myself holding my breath as I once again read these incredibly brave and raw memories of Maya. I have so much admiration for your courage in sharing this ultimate challenge of letting go of a beloved child. You show us all how it is possible to move beyond such a devastating loss. And we get to meet Maya, the spirited and beautiful young woman you raised. Your story will touch many and should be read by all parents. Thank you for your heartfelt sharing. Maya’s spirit lives on through your words.
Blessings and Hugs,
Kathy
http://krpooler.com
Dear Kathy,
Thank you for your heartfelt response to my story. If Maya’s spirit lives on, I am content. However, she is always pushing me to do more! That was/is her nature. It was at a visit to her grave in the spring of 2012 that I got a very clear message that I needed to get Swimming with Maya back out there after my previous publisher had closed. Through my dear friend Madeline Sharples, I was introduced to Mike O’Mary at Dream of Things, and the book has had an amazing new life in paperback and e-Book. It truly takes a village! I am so very grateful to have readers and fellow writers like you supporting my work. I know Maya is thrilled too!
Eleanor Vincent recently posted..Talking to Kids about Death
A true ‘Gutsy’ story. No parent makes the decision to say goodbye to their child without immense heartache. To consider giving the gift of life or wellness to other so soon after such a blow speaks of real strength and humanity.
xxx Huge Hugs xxx
David Prosser recently posted..Risking one eye and a Turn of the Cards.
David,
Thank you so much. I gratefully accept Huge Hugs, whether virtual or in person. Saying goodbye to Maya was the hardest thing I hope I ever have to do in this life. When I began writing Swimming with Maya, I thought it might be impossible to describe it. Yet, I persisted. I’m still searching for words for that moment. My heart broke. But it also expanded. It was an invitation to spiritual, emotional, and psychological growth beyond anything I could have imagined. Grief forces us to grow up, and if we follow its lead, will transform us. Love for my children made me a humanitarian – at the moment of the doctor’s request, I would have done anything to stop another family from going through the devastation we were experiencing. And I so wanted Maya to live on. That was the selfish mother bear in me. I could not accept that she was gone forever. Thank you for reading our story.
Eleanor Vincent recently posted..Talking to Kids about Death
An incredibly powerful post–thank you so much for sharing! Know that you’ve inspired others to hold their loved ones a little bit closer. *hugs*
Jami Gold recently posted..Ask Jami: Where to Find Beta Readers
Jami,
Thank you for reading. One of my deepest intentions was to help people wake up to the amazing gift of their loved ones. It becomes so easy to take each other for granted. Nothing in this life is guaranteed. I thought my life with my daughters would go on forever, or at least until I died in some far misty future. Maya’s death woke me up. Shortly after she died, I saw a frustrated, desperate mother screaming at her child in the grocery store and threatening to slap her. I almost intervened. I wanted to say to her, “You have no idea what you have.” Instead, I kept pushing my cart and seeing Maya’s little face as a child, and remembering the times when I too had been an impatient stressed out parent. I prayed for that mom and her little daughter. Love. That’s it. The simplest most profound gift. Thank you for “getting it.”
Eleanor Vincent recently posted..Talking to Kids about Death
Beautiful story expressing the depth of grief in losing a child. Nurses and other health care professionals need to understand the long term effects of chronic sorrow on families.
Lois,
Oh I so agree with you! Unresolved grief is one of the biggest public health problems we face as a nation. Slowly, we are beginning to be more willing to talk about death and grief, but our culture is still in such denial. That includes medical professionals. Many, especially doctors, are trained to save people’s lives and feel they have failed if death is the outcome. I admire those physicians and nurses and hospice workers who take a different, more wholistic approach. May I recommend a wonderful anthology, “At the End of Life: True Stories About How we Die,” edited by Lee Gutkind. Many of the essays in the collection are written by medical professionals, and some by lay people like myself, but the book is a chorus of stories about how we can die and grieve very differently. And how those on hand to help us on the journey can participate in a compassionate, loving way.
Thanks for reading and for your commitment to helping others.
Eleanor Vincent recently posted..Talking to Kids about Death
Dear Eleanor, if my tears are any indication, you cried an ocean. I do believe that maxim. I can’t think of a more perfect example of creating emotional bonds with readers than the story on this page. You bring us right up next to your heart. I feel it beating.
Thank you for bringing this tender topic of dying and death further out of the closet in both this post and your book.
Sharon Lippincott recently posted..Discover by Doing
Dear Sharon,
It is a tender topic so I greatly appreciate your tender response. I did cry an ocean. Loving deeply is a great risk. As a mother I tried to defend against that by pretending that nothing so dire could ever happen to my children. Maya’s death shattered my denial. And much else in my life. My book is about how I reoriented myself. Writing was key, but only part of the answer. If my writing helps bring death and grief out of the closet, I will feel like a very fortunate writer indeed.
Your observation about bringing readers close is interesting. In “real life” I sometimes protect myself by keeping people at a distance. Writing is often how I access my own emotions more fully so it makes sense that a sensitive reader would feel that process as it unfolds on the page. Thank you, Sharon, for sharing your response to this essay.
This had me in tears. A beautiful and very moving story.
Lady Fi recently posted..Pearls of gold
Lady Fi,
Thank you so much. I honor your tears. And my own. I hope you’ll consider reading Swimming with Maya.
Eleanor Vincent recently posted..Talking to Kids about Death
Thank you ever so much for sharing, and showing us the way.
What you write about unresolved grief is so true. Maybe things would be less traumatic if we were better prepared for such painful circumstances ( like mothers for chidbirth ). It’s so difficult to integrate that death is part of life, and that life is part of death. My deepest respect, and all the very best for the future xxx
Carol,
Thanks so much for your comments. It is difficult but also very worthwhile.
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