Your Daughter Will Save Four Lives

**Sensitive Content Warning* This story is about the death of a child. Themes include drunk driving, organ donation, and obviously death. I cried the whole time writing it, then I cried some more editing it. It’s truly my worst nightmare and I almost didn’t want to write it for fear of manifesting it. If you choose to read this story, thank you. If you’ve ever experienced the death of the child, words can’t express how sorry I am that you had to live through that. **

I never wanted to be a mother. That sounds bad but it’s not like I was against being a mother either. I was just sort of indifferent to the idea of motherhood. If it happened to me great, if not, I was never going to be the person to spend my life savings on IVF or fertility treatments. No disrespect towards the families who do seek out that kind of help. I can’t even imagine the pain of wanting a child and not being able to have one, that sounds devastating. I completely understand now how someone can sink so much money into the chance of having a child. There really is nothing like it.

When my husband and I decided to start “not trying, but not preventing” it took a little over a year for me to get pregnant. I was shocked, scared, nervous and feeling every emotion that one can have. The most prevalent thing on my mind being what if I just ruined my life?! My husband and I were high school sweethearts and now in our thirties we’d been happy with just us and the dogs for a long time. I didn’t know that the day my girl was born would be the absolute best day of my life. I had heard that from every single parent I have ever known but until it happens to you, you just don’t understand how powerful that feeling is. I was hooked from the first time our eyes met. I couldn’t believe it and I yelled out “She’s looking at me! She’s looking at me!”. It was a miracle that I still can’t wrap my mind around. Thinking about it makes me cry huge heavy sobs that wrack my whole body. I can’t do this.

How am I supposed to do this? I feel like I am being punished for not having the desire for her to be here. Maybe if I was less ambivalent about motherhood it wouldn’t be getting taken away from me now. I feel so much shame for feeling unsure if I wanted her because right now that’s the only thing that I want. Maybe this is my karma from all the times in my early twenties I had a couple of drinks and then got behind the wheel. “I’m totally fine!” I would reassure everyone but maybe I wasn’t and now it’s time to pay. I can feel my heart dying.

The hard reality is that my heart is still pumping, betraying my desire to die with every beat. I want to trade places with her. I want to be in the ICU bed, brain-dead, hit by a drunk driver. I want to die, please, please, please. I don’t know how I can live with this pain.

I look down at my perfect angel. I don’t believe in God, I don’t think so, not really, not if I’m being completely honest with myself. I want to believe. It’s such a beautiful concept. I want it to be true so badly. To arrive in heaven one day and get to see, hold, hug, squeeze, kiss, and hear my baby’s voice just one last time. Maybe if heaven is real and God knows my thoughts, he will let me talk to her and hold her one last time before I go to hell for having no faith.

We need to decide soon. Doctors have told us more than once there is no brain activity, nothing they can do, they’ve tried everything, and it was just too late. “I’m so sorry.” I’ve heard too many times from too many blurry faces, it’s hard to focus through the tears. It’s also hard to hear.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I find myself asking more times than I’m proud of. God, I can’t keep my child alive, I can’t listen, what the fuck can I do? I cry harder and almost hyperventilate. Nurses rush in to comfort me and finally my frantic breathing turns into long deep breaths, giving me the oxygen I so desperately need. I still feel like I can’t breathe as I sit with the organ donation team.

“Your daughter will save four lives.” They tell me. “Her heart, kidneys, and liver” I hear as the rest of the sentence fades into nothingness. My ears won’t send the message to my brain, I can’t process this. It’s too painful. I nod trying to be polite and pretending like I understand but I feel so lost. Why are they asking me these questions? Why can’t my baby wake up? Why can’t she use her own heart, kidneys, and liver? I so desperately want to scream.

I need time to think, to think about how it’s even possible to consent to this. If I consent, isn’t that like I’m agreeing? That I consent to her death? Well, I don’t consent. I don’t fucking consent. I am so angry. I want to hate these people that need her organs, to hate the people asking for them. I hate that they will get a chance to live and that means my daughter’s life is over. I hate myself for feeling that way. My pain is so overwhelming it’s blocking out what I know is the right thing to do.

I sign the papers. I approve the organ harvest. Harvest, just like a fucking fall festival. I feel like I’m going to puke, nauseous with grief, jealousy and anger. I run to the bathroom and empty my stomach contents, which isn’t much since I can’t seem to force myself to eat.

I get two more days next to her bed in the pediatric ICU before the donation recipients will be ready for one of the best days of their life, one of the worst days of mine. When it’s finally time I want to change my mind. Maybe the doctors missed something, and she isn’t brain-dead? What if there is new brain activity? What if we are making the decision too fast and denying her the chance to recover? Then I think of the recipients, already prepped and waiting for their new chance at life and I can’t rip that away from them. If I did that, I would be the same kind of monster who ripped my baby girl away from me.

“Can I have just a few more minutes?” I ask the nurses as they come to wheel her away into surgery.

“Sure honey, take as much time as you need.” They leave the room to give us some privacy. I lean over the bed and kiss those sweet plump cheeks, so perfect. I kiss her nose and her forehead and eyes. I hold her little hands. I admire each finger, each fingernail, just as precious and miraculous as the day she was born. Tears fall onto her sweet face, and I gently wipe them away.

“Mommy is so, so, so, so, sorry baby. I love you more than words could ever say.” I want to say more but I don’t know what. How do you choose the final words you want to say to your child? There are no words, so I just hold her. Hold her alive but dead body. Trying to transfer every living cell of my body into hers, trying to save her. Wishing so desperately she would hug me back. Wishing I would wake up from this nightmare.

I don’t wake up though, and eventually it’s time. I can walk with her, they tell me. I follow behind the hospital bed as it’s maneuvered into the hallway. I squeeze my husband’s hand so hard I might break it. My eyes are down, looking at our interlaced fingers, imagining our daughter’s tiny hand in between, so I don’t notice right away how many people are lined up. People stand shoulder to shoulder down the length of the hallway, their hands in a prayer position. I appreciate the meaning behind their gestures, even though I am not religious. Some nod respectfully in my direction as I walk past, others I can tell are holding back tears. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Walking, willingly, to what I know is the death of my child. When I see her again, she will be for real dead, not alive dead like she is right now.

I hold onto the siderail next to her just a moment longer. I grab her hand and look down into her beautiful face just one more time. I thank a god I don’t believe in for giving me the gift of even knowing her. Then I turn and walk away, into a life where no one calls me Mama anymore.