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Maya's gifts -- An intimate look at organ donation
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While grieving the loss of her daughter, a woman finds comfort in the gifts of life that exist through organ donations.
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By Eleanor Vincent
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I hear the steady beat of Maya's heart in his chest
When Fernando is about 10 feet away I see that his eyes are beaming. He has salt and pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and he is dressed in wrinkled khaki chinos and a blue sports jacket. Before he even speaks, warmth emanates from him. His eyes meet mine and I am overwhelmed with tongue-tied shyness. I really do not know how to greet this man, so I simply extend my hand. He takes it and then pulls me into an embrace that lasts several long moments. As my head rests against his jacket I find myself weeping, and through that sound, I hear the steady beat of Maya's heart in his chest.
His wife, Penny, a stylishly dressed blond with a kind smile, stands silently at his side. Ten-year-old Evelyn, as blond and fair as her mother, holds Penny's hand, watching openmouthed. Christopher, 14, stands behind his father, obviously ill at ease, but curious, his almond-shaped eyes darting from face to face.
"You have given me a part of yourself," says Fernando, stroking my hair. "The child who lived in you is living in me. I have so much respect for what you have done."
Mixed emotions
I absorb his words and I am grateful for them, but at the same time it is intensely confusing to know that Maya's presence is just inches away, yet unreachable. A middle-age man stands before me vital and alive while my daughter's bones are buried 30 miles away. My hands shake as I grip his shoulders. I have a powerful urge to hold my daughter instead.
All of the grown-ups cry, including the two donor coordinators. One of the coordinators gestures to the cluster of metal folding chairs around the table, and we sit down and begin what turns into a two-hour conversation.
The future I lost, the one Fernando gained
The transplant has had a profound impact on Fernando's energy. During the 10 years of his illness, his damaged heart ballooned in size and could not pump enough blood through his body, making his breathing laboured and tenuous. He could barely move from the sofa, and climbing stairs became impossible in the months before his operation. Now, he is overflowing with vitality, and Penny says she can't keep him off the treadmill or the tennis court. "I can't keep up with him," she teases.
During the weeks that follow our meeting, I ask myself if I think it is really fate, or just a stupid, cruel accident. Or are they the same? The stark contrast between the future I lost and the one Fernando and his family gained confounds my ability to accept this so-called fate.
I plummet back down into tearful pacing, the eternal tape loop in my brain insistently demanding why, why, why? Maya should be graduating from UCLA, but instead she lies buried on a hillside in the Garden of Remembrance. Her heart makes it possible for Fernando to play tennis, make love with Penny and go to the movies with his kids. But my daughter's life has been snuffed out.
A place where she can rest and be safe at last
Fernando sends me a photograph taken on the afternoon of our meeting. In it, his arm surrounds my shoulders. His smile is sweet and glowing and he appears to me as I imagine Lazarus might have looked after Jesus raised him from the dead: surprised, happy to see everyone, slightly dazed. I'm smiling, too, turning in toward this man who almost looks as if he could be related to me. We have the same dark brown eyes, sharp cheekbones and prominent noses. I frame the photo and set it on my writing desk.
As I wrestle with the meaning of what has happened, I begin to think of Fernando as my daughter's adopted father, a kind of benign benefactor. A place where she can rest and be safe at last.
Page 3 of 3
 | Excerpted from Swimming with Maya: A Mother's Story by Eleanor Vincent. Copyright 2004 by Eleanor Vincent. Excerpted by permission of Capital Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. |
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