August 4th is coming up this Thursday and more than likely I'll be busy at school getting my classroom ready for the kids who will arrive the next week. But on that date in 2011, things were different. Very different. In the early morning hours of that exceptionally cool Kansas morning, I took out on my bicycle for my usual 10-mile morning ride. It was wonderful to be out and having fun as I raced down the city streets of my old home in Hutchinson, Kansas. Everything was great that morning with nice temperatures for a change. At the end of the ride as I headed towards my house, I was cruising at about 10 mph. I wasn't paying attention and missed the driveway into my place so I made a split, last second decision to jump the curb instead of going on to the next drive way.
It was the worst decision I could have ever made.
It ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me.
Looking back on it now, I realize how crazy it was and how foolish I was to even think of doing that "curb jumping" thing. I really believed that I could do it or else I wouldn't have tried. That piece of edging, poured in '36, was not forgiving. I met it head on and the end result didn't look pretty. My bike ended up in the neighbor's driveway while my poor 55-year old body landed in a crumpled heap upon the ground. At first everything was still. I couldn't feel a thing but after a second or two when the numb feeling went away, the pain arrived. I knew I was in big trouble when I had to reach down and scoop my left arm up from the ground. At least I could still walk and I hadn't been knocked out, but "old lefty" was beyond being in trouble and I knew it.
After a wild ride to the hospital, 4 surgeries to repair all the damage that I did to my arm, nearly 9 months in a series of long arm casts and splints, the doctor pronounced me as good as I was ever going to get. What began as a simple morning spin around town ended up being a $100,000 lesson in how to ride a bicycle safely. But that wasn't all that I took away from the experience. The most important part of it all came on August 10, 2011 at the hospital in Wichita, Kansas.
That's the day I met "Daryl".
While undergoing surgery number 2, I was awake and able to listen from time to time as to what they were saying. "Old lefty" was numb and even though I'd been given medicine to help me relax and not worry about what they were doing, I found it interesting to kind of/sort of follow the procedure. I was surprised several times to hear my surgeon ask for another bag of croutons. I heard it not once but at least a couple of times. In my mind, I thought,
"Geesch, I'm glad someone is having a nice lunch over there because I'm sure hungry."
At the end of the surgery, I was taken to the recovery room and the long process to healing began. I will never forget what happened then. Before they even took my vital signs or anything else for that matter, I was given an envelope that had a message in it. It would end up explaining what those "croutons" really were. The nurse told me that while I was in surgery, the doctor found the damage was so severe that the only way to repair it was by using donated bone tissue material from someone who had died. If I wished to, she told me that I could use the string of numbers underneath my name to write and thank the person's family.
I couldn't believe it. I had no idea that it would be so bad inside my wrist that I would need the help of someone else to even remotely get better. Even if I live to be 100 (or 85 for that matter), I will never forget that moment. I reached over with my right hand and hugged my left wrist buried deep underneath that surgical cast and whispered a message with tear-filled eyes.
"I don't know who you are but thank you! I love you!"
There's a long, long story about what all happened in the days that would follow but that's another blogpost. Even though I wrote and never heard back from the donor's family, I took solace in knowing that I did at least thank them. Later on, when no response came back I was able to learn more about who my donor was. That first Christmas I found out that he was a 45-year old man from Missouri. In 2014, I learned that he woke up one morning having chest pains and shortness of breath but he died on the way to the hospital as he was being raced to the ER for help. I also learned something that was so important to me. I found out his name was Daryl. I understood that I could not learn his last name because of privacy issues and I respected that. I was just so grateful for him and the love his family had for him by allowing his body to be used in such a manner upon death.
Life continued on as I healed and got better. I have said that from that point in time my life became better and that having that accident was the very best thing that could have ever happened to me. I stand by that statement today in 2016, almost 5 years to the day from when this all began. I no longer take my life for granted. When I see things I want to do, I do them. My old "non-adventurous" self stepped aside and a new person emerged. Life is way too short and the fragility of it all is apparent.
There is a tattoo on the inside of my right leg that honors Daryl and the experience that I went through. I used a quote from a wonderful movie, "eyes closed, heart wide open" to remember how precious the gift of life is and how important it is to be a donor upon passing from this earth. Then there is a cross to remember the one thing most important to me. Right below the cross, the name "Eleanore" appears. That name came to me immediately after being told that I had been the recipient of someone's bone material. I have no idea why that name came to my head nor why it would not leave me until I found out 3 month's later at Christmas time. My sister had done some research and learned that the name basically translates into the gift of compassion and healing. Underneath it, is the date 8-10-11. That's the date of my surgery and really the start to a whole new life for me. Underneath the date is the abbreviation "Mo.-Ks." for Daryl and I. Finally at the bottom of the tattoo, the verse from the Good Book, John 15:13 can be found.
"No greater love hath a man, that he would lay down his life for a friend."
Maybe it was because the 5th year anniversary of my accident was coming up soon, but towards the very last part of July this year I began to think more and more about Daryl. I couldn't figure out why for sure. It got me to thinking so much about it all that I made a call back to the office that has handled all of my questions so far about who this man was. It had been two years since I made the last call and as always, the person I spoke with was kind and helpful. Most information is private and I most certainly respect and honor that. One thing I had always wondered about was the date of Daryl's death. I had never known that before and so I asked this time. I was able to learn that he had died not all that long before my accident and that his date of death was July 21, 2010. It was strangely ironic to think that I had been wondering about it just recently so close to the anniversary of his death.
It's been a great summer and soon it will come to an end. Yet before it does come to a close, I'm going to make one last plea in all of this. It comes from me and from Daryl as well. Please consider being an organ and tissue donor upon your death. It's not something that people like to talk about sometimes but at least give it a thought. Each day there are folks who are on the waiting list for transplants and sadly to say, according to one site that I found online an average of 22 people die each day waiting for a donor. It doesn't have to be that way.
Although I never learned his last name, it doesn't matter. Some day I will meet Daryl in Heaven, a place where surnames aren't even important any longer. When I do, I can't wait to give him a hug and say something long overdue to him.
"Thanks my friend!"
And I mean it.
No comments:
Post a Comment