A year ago yesterday, I was in a meeting for a charity event when John called. I was a tad impatient: "I will call you back when the meeting's over, OK?" I whispered into the phone. I was about to hang up when I heard his frantic voice, "Diana, don't hang up! They have a liver! I need you to take me to the hospital!"
The time with him in pre-dawn hours in a deserted surgery prep room was bittersweet. I carried with me all the disappointments and betrayals of living with an increasingly out-of-control alcoholic who had hurt me terribly, and I bore deep scars that I knew would never go away. And yet this was the father of my children, the man I had fallen in love with at 22, my entire universe for 30 years. I didn't want him to die, no matter what he'd done.
I climbed up on the gurney with him and held him close. We whispered to each other, prayed, and planned his funeral just in case. I put aside my hurt to help a man who was hurting more, and had paid in many humbling ways for his sins. The threat of impending death brings everything in sharp relief, and comforting him in that dark hour was the only thing that seemed right.
On this, the anniversary of that day, it is fitting to talk about the anonymous letter that came for John in November, after he had written one of incredible thankfulness to his donor family. Transplant hospitals do this service for their transplant patients and donors, to bring closure to a shattering emotional event on both sides.
"I have been trying to write this letter ever since the day I received yours," the donor's wife wrote. "I've been wondering where to start and how to finish and so I haven't. When I opened your letter and read what you wrote, I want you to know how much it meant to me to hear from you. You said many wonderful things."
"My husband was an absolutely amazing person. Over 1,200 people came to the service we had here for him. He died in his hometown and was loved and respected. He left behind 5 children. He was the leader of this family and we are missing him every hour of every day. To think about you sometimes and realize that literally part of him is still alive and that you are making the most of your life means so much to me."
"My husband was 53 when he left us. He lived a very honest, healthy life. Anyone you ask would tell you that he was one of the most straight-forward people you ever knew. He was generous, incredibly smart, loyal, curious, a leader, driven, loving, a wonderful husband and father. He loved to hunt and fish. He had just taken our two middle children on their first deer hunt, and all the kids loved to hunt ducks with him. Fly-fishing was a big passion of his, also. He was a great downhill and cross country skier. He biked, played hockey, and swam on a full scholarship at the university where he graduated."
I won't include details that might identify him, but his wife went on to say, "You mentioned your youngest grandchild and his smile. We don't have any grandchildren, but your description of him reminded me so much of my newest nephew here and his sweet smile. "
"I hope the holidays bring your family together and that you are feeling well. The kids and I are going out to a remote cabin to scatter his ashes at Thanksgiving."
After John finished reading the letter to me, I dissolved into a pool of salty tears. We had been back together for only six months by then, and I was still raw. I remember saying, "He was such a good man! I wish we had a family as close as theirs! Oh, that poor family-- he didn't deserve to die!"
And then, fiercely challenging, "You had better live a good life from now on. You can't let that good man die in vain."
Our family has traveled a rough road since then, full of challenges. God simply won't let up on whatever difficult lessons He is trying to teach us. None of them has ever given John pause to drink. I know in my heart he will never drink again. He won't waste this precious gift he has been given.
Not only that, but he is a completely different man than the one he was two St. Patrick's ago, when I made him leave in disgust. He still has a long way to go, but his brain is constantly evolving. He is not a dry drunk, still stuck in the same self-defeating patterns of behavior. He has discovered that he believes in God, he is deeply involved in AA, and he is helping other people find a new way to live. His children are proud of him again, and in some critical ways our family is beginning to heal. And, as a bonus, he almost always does the dishes.
I am different, too. I no longer try to fix everything, to do everything myself to the point of exhaustion, to over-rescue the people I love. I am getting better at giving things up to God, and He is constantly teaching me that I am not in control. "Let it be" is a song that often rolls around my head like a prayer. "There will be an answer, let it be."
Miracles do happen.
