Tony was an organ donor.
We’d spoken about it, many times. “I don’t need ‘em.” That simple.
But- and I’ve blogged a bit about this before- when it came down to it, the decision to it nearly broke me, it was so very difficult. Him dieing, what happened- I had no decision in that. But here, I had a choice. And saying it was OK, to cut up his body,his tattoos for us…
The pain was almost too much. I was almost such a coward.
I’m eternally grateful that Tony’s mum and sister where there, to enforce it, to hold me up, to say yes when the word’s just failed me.
It’s till hard. I know it’s been such a comfort to Tony’s mum, but it aches at me, eats at me, makes me jealous of the people who are walking around, his heart beating blood through their veins. Seeing the world through his eyes.
The organ donation service are lovely. We haves pins, tiny gold roses, a real rose bush, coming soon in the mail (I wonder if their hearts are heavy, at that nursery, every time they receive a card with an order for another Remembrance Rose, of if they rejoice that more lives have been altered, been saved..?), support whenever we need it.
But it’s a flipside for me. while it’s comfort for his mother, his sister too, I think, just reminds me achingly of what I’ve lost.
My mother in law gave me a photocopy of a card she’d received, from a donor family, saying thank you. I couldn’t look at it.
But some nights, now, as the peace slowly begins to drizzle in and fill the cold, gaping cracks in my soul… some nights, when I’m lonely, I stand under the warmth of the shower, and try to hear my heartbeat. And I think that somewhere out there, there are people giving thanks whilst they acknowledge my pain. People who know that what they’ve got left me with this heartbreak.
And that makes me feel better. I worked at a hospital, years ago, and I’ve seen organ donations. I’ve seen a 16 year old girl, with a set of new lungs, who has colour in her cheeks and walks like a girl, not an old woman.
I’m proud of Tony, for that. I think he’d be proud too.