Finding Peace

             For several years I volunteered as a writer for TransWeb, which posted articles and photographs for the Transplant Games – a sort of mini-Olympics for people who had received organ donations. The event also brought together families of people who had donated organs. I remember waiting for a bus going back to the hotel, watching a woman listen to her daughter’s heart beating in another woman’s chest.

            The article below is one I wrote for the 2002 games. When I reread it last week, I was surprised by the writing. Not, unfortunately perhaps, who I am now.

 

Finding Peace

 

            As a TransWeb writer new to the Transplant Games, I had been told in advance about the power of the Donor Recognition Ceremony. But I was not prepared to be moved so deeply.

 

            When I entered the stunning white basilica that is Mary, Queen of the Universe Shrine, I quickly spotted the tissue boxes distributed along the pews. I was ready for that. I was not ready for the beauty of the space. I thought of another magical moment: when the field lights were first turned on just before Wednesday's Opening Ceremony and the entire stadium was transformed into a glowing world roofed by pinkish clouds. Here in the shrine the immaculate white walls, the orderly rows of oak and the stained-glass windows above all said to me that here the everyday world was being set aside. Life was going to become more intense and beautiful. 

            The large statue of the Crucifixion above the front of the aisle and to the triumphant Ascension at the rear, with Christ springing from his shroud, were perfect images to frame the Donor Recognition Ceremony. Yes, there was painful death, but it led to a rebirth-not necessarily in terms of the Christian soul in the case of transplantation, but in terms of giving another person a chance for new life. 

            Soon people filed into the shrine-very real people in such a magical world. Some were wrinkled, the suffering in their lives evident on their faces. Some were slender and athletic, but others were overweight and did not walk easily. I saw a baby sleeping in her father's arms and a middle-aged couple being photographed as the husband made the universal two-fingered hand signal behind his smiling wife's head. One man wore Walter Payton's old Chicago Bears jersey. Some wore team shirts, but not very many. Groups were talking and laughing together, but many sat quietly, singly or in couples, reflecting on their own thoughts and memories. Organ music murmured in the background. 

            These ordinary people were extraordinary, and their presence in this beautiful building acknowledged that fact. They belonged in this beauty. 

            The ceremony began with rituals that added emotional power. The Processional of the Donor Heart Memorial was dignified and moving, and the Presentation of Colors by the Cypress Creek High School Naval Jr. ROTC in effect broadened that impact, reminding us of the political world outside these walls. Rituals, like the songs, prayers, and poems we participated in, all served to elevate our experience beyond the everyday. And yet these were and are everyday people -- like me, I thought -- but they had done extraordinary things as donor families. When we got to the 4th verse of "America the Beautiful" I choked up and could not continue singing. 

            Ellen Kulik and Barbara Musto, both donor moms, introduced another theme to the ceremony and helped to clarify what we were feeling: We are, they said, a family -- a family of grieving families -- so expect to see hugs and kisses. Much of the grieving was private, natural, and a healthy sign of the value of what you love. We share feelings with our fellow human beings, as fellow sufferers – even someone like me, who is not part of a donor family and has not received a transplant. By being part of the ceremony, I became part of the community, and I found myself surprisingly vulnerable to tears. A song like "Take These Wings" might have struck me as sentimental in another situation, but here, so beautifully sung among people who had experienced its truth, it seemed rich, moving, and meaningful. We understood the force behind "and learn to fly." 

            And then the slow progression of names-the Honor Roll of Donors. A long list, but not nearly long enough. I looked at the people listening to the names. Many were quietly weeping. Some were holding hands. A few husbands had their arms around their wives' shoulders. Hugs. How must it feel to hear the name of your child? I thought of my own children, alive and well. 

            The Responsive Reading reinforced the sense of family. As we repeated "We are connected by love," I thought of how intensely those of us in the room felt the truth of these words and how intermittently we felt it in the world outside this room: the West Bank, Pakistan, or my home town in Michigan. The families here, through personal loss, have gained a sense of connection. Organ donation is for the donor families more than a practical gift to individuals: It is a sign of love and connection to humanity. 

            The Medal Ceremony returned me to an appreciation of the ordinariness of these extraordinary people, made clear to me by the contrast with the Olympic handsomeness of Chris Klug and the star power of Larry Hagman, who presented the medals. I saw people who were shy, proud, overwhelmed, still stunned, radiant, embarrassed, and humble. They could be Chaucer's pilgrims, except they share a generosity in real life that for his travelers was only an ideal. And yes, some are as beautiful as the star presenters. Not some: many. And more beautiful. 

            Chris Klug charmed us with his remarks, but I thought most often of his waiting for a donor and how difficult that must be for anyone used to taking action. And I thought of the man I interviewed at the Opening Ceremony describing how he was awakened in the night by false alarms on his pager. Until finally it called him to a liver transplant for his daughter, Alissa. 

            The Video Tribute: Honoring Our Loved Ones was overwhelming. All those beautiful faces, presented in such a steady rhythm, each image zooming in closer as we imagined our way into their lives. And so many of them so young-children, teenagers, young adults. What losses -- and what must it be like to see the picture of your child, alive and well?

            The untitled poem read by Larry Hagman was eloquent in ways the author could not have intended. The concluding sentence, "I did not die," had to refer to the ongoing life of the soul, but I doubt the poet had in mind the much more tangible life-after-death for the organ donors and their families. The concluding words of the Benediction spoke more directly to the donor families: 

Guide us into the future, as our grief

is transformed into compassion

and our hurt into help and hope for others

that in the dawn of memory

we will find peace.