Memoir

How many times in the course of a Childs life. Do we open their bedroom door and check (either consciously or subconsciously) to see if they are breathing?

Sunday morning, December 21, 1997. I awaken at 8:30am and hear the TV on in my son Lee’s room next door – nothing unusual. I open the door – glance at him – reach in and turn off his TV.

I go back to my room and doze off. About 9:30am I call cousin Ken – my brothers son who lives in Laguna Beach. I confirm plans for brunch at noon with Ken and my sons Lee, Jeff and Todd.

About 10:00 am Lee’s phone rings once, then twice. At first I am amused because he always lets the phone ring twice even though he has the phone right next to him in bed. I know it is Lee’s dad calling to say good morning. As he does every Sunday.

Perhaps Lee is in the bathroom or kitchen and didn’t take his portable phone with him I’m thinking, as the phone is now ringing for the third and forth time.

I still do not let myself become alarmed. However, as I open the door, I see he is still in the same position he was in when I turned off his TV two and a half hours ago.

I walk towards – numb. I can see he is not alive anymore. I take a deep breath. I do not scream or cry. I pick up his phone and go and get my phone. I dial his father on one phone and 911 n the other.

I cannot react. I am beyond reacting to the horror of his life of total blindness, seizures, hepatitis C and Kidney failure. The medicine, operations; including two kidney transplants – one of which I was the donor – the needles - the tests – the constant fight to stay alive – to win the battle over and over again – until there was no more winning.

My poor son – his sweet disposition. Always with a smile on his face – always grateful. He called me his DONOR DOLL MOM every single time he talked to me from 1982 to 1997. All he wanted to do is live.

I felt deep sorrow and – yes – I felt enormous relief. No more suffering.
As my family and friends gathered around, my dear friend and his transplant doctor, Fred Kuyt, arrived, hugged me and said “ Lois, you don’t have to be brave anymore”.