From 2003-2010, I was a registered nurse, and for a large chunk of that time, I worked on a busy medical/palliative-care ward. During my time as a nurse, I met many patients who struck a special chord in me, and therefore they’ll never be forgotten. One such patient was a young man awaiting a liver transplant.
His wife was at his bedside from sunup to sundown. This couple had a true unconditional love. I want to say all I can remember about this couple because it matters. Every little detail from how they spoke to each other, to the silence between them for hours with intermittent tears to the talks they had with me of their fears.
They talked about why life hands us these sometimes awful circumstances, and why in this world we hope is run by a force far greater than ourselves it is so unfair. I wish I could have answered them or said something to explain it so that I could at least offer peace of some kind.
I got to know this couple well. The wife and husband were in their mid-40s. No kids yet, but they spoke to me of wanting kids one day if they made it through this enormous challenge. The husband, my patient — let’s call him Jim — was getting weak. Lab results were a stark reminder of his imminent death if he were not to receive a new liver.
Jim was given a pager to wear that he was informed would alert him at any indication of a new liver on its way to him. One day, his pager went off. I saw colour fill his wife’s face as if she herself had just been resuscitated, and she placed her head on her husband’s chest in his hospital bed and they both cried happy tears. I was elated for them at the possibility this could be his wish come true. Key word: Possibility.
Soon after that page, I received word from Jim’s doctor that the new liver was in worse shape than his own, very sick, liver. I was angry. I was angry that they paged him before they knew of this fact and I was angry that a now “ hopeful” Jim had sunk back into depression and despair. I felt even a sense of guilt and responsibility in that I was only the messenger, but a distinctly negative messenger in their case.
Jim’s doctor told me he was lucky even to get that call, as there are so many people awaiting new livers. If it were to happen again, it would have to be soon, as his health was failing. Especially given the aftermath, when a patient is given anti-rejection meds and you pray and hope and hold your breath until you know your loved one is truly “accepting” their new organ.
But the doctor also said something to me that I’ll never forget. He said that I had to keep telling Jim that there’s some hope. Even though he had just told me there was slim to zero chance of Jim getting his new liver at all or in time.
I was confused about his instructions. I was lying to Jim, wasn’t I? But then the doctor said when all is lost and you’re on your knees making deals with God or whoever you believe controls life, hope is the only tangible rope to grab onto and pull yourself up with. And he clearly said: “Don’t take hope away, or he will let go of that rope, that lifeline.”
So, I maintained my hopeful care for him, though through my nursing lens, I could see Jim failing quickly.
Another page came. They told him again there was a liver for him. Jim and his wife and all the staff who had cared for Jim thought this is it: He’s gonna get this one and he’s gonna make it! We were ecstatic for Jim and his wife.
Then the dreaded news came — again. This liver was also more diseased than his own.
At this point, there was nothing one could say. Jim and his wife began crying together in an embrace, the cries that come from deep inside a wounded heart. I pulled the door to his private room shut to give them privacy after shedding some tears with them. And the memory of this heartache was archived in my heart forever.
Jim had now lost hope. He explained that he was done with fighting to live and fighting to wait and fighting in general, and had decided to spend his last days in hospital just trying to be comfortable and not lose any last moments with his wife waiting for something that likely wasn’t coming in time to save him. He said he needed to find peace now, before he left this Earth.
Jim passed away about three weeks later in hospital, as no viable liver transplant donors came through.
This patient and his wife, I never forgot, and when I hear about people needing organ donations, this story comes to mind and I thought I had to tell it, for two reasons:
1. Because we need more registered organ donors — a lot more.
2. Because not all organs that are donated are healthy enough to be transplanted into the recipient. It might be the assumption that a person donates their organs and so automatically their organs save as many lives as they have organs. But they only save as many lives as the number of healthy organs they had.
Twice, Jim had the chance to get a new liver, but sadly, the donors’ livers were worse than Jim’s. It’s a detail that makes organ donation a major health-care crisis that could be remedied by more people registering to be organ donors.
I know this is just my belief and not all will agree, but this body we live in we essentially “rent” for our soul to take its rightful journey of enlightenment. When we die, our soul is all that remains and is no less intact by simply giving what organs you can when you pass on and leave this Earth.
I believe our souls might just be even more intact and enlightened by giving a part of ourselves so that someone else — someone with dreams unfulfilled and passions unplayed — can be given a second chance at continuing their soul’s journey in this vessel we call our body.
I hope reading this made you at least consider being an organ donor, if you’re not already.
Bonnie-Leigh Thornton worked as a registered nurse at Cowichan District Hospital.
