I’ll never forget that warm summer day in July 1965, when my mother unexpectedly died of a still unexplained illness at the young age of thirty-six. Later that afternoon, a police officer stopped by to ask my father’s permission for the hospital to use my mother’s aortic valve and the corneas from her eyes. I was absolutely stunned. The doctors want to dissect Mom and give her away to other people, I thought as I ran into the house in tears.
At fourteen, I could not understand why anyone would take apart a person I loved. To top it off, my father told them, “Yes.”
“How can you let them do that to her?” I screamed at him. “My mom came into this world in one piece and that is how she should go out.”
“Linda,” he said quietly, putting his arm around me, “the greatest gift you can give is a part of yourself. Your mother and I decided long ago that if we can make a difference in just one person’s life after we die, then our death will have meaning.” He went on to explain they had both decided to be organ donors.
The lesson my father taught me that day became one of the most important in my life.
Years passed. I married and had a family of my own. In 1980, my father became seriously ill with emphysema and moved in with us. For the next six years, we spent many hours talking about life and death.
He cheerfully told me that when he died, he wanted me to donate whatever was in good condition, especially his eyes. “Sight is one of the greatest gifts a person can give,” he said, noting how wonderful it would be if a child could be helped to see, and draw horses the way my daughter Wendy did.
She had been drawing horses all her life, winning award after award. “Just imagine how proud another parent would feel if her daughter could draw like Wendy,” Dad said. “Think how proud you would feel knowing that my eyes were making it possible.”
I told Wendy what her grandpa had said, and, with tears in her eyes, she went into her grandpa’s room and gave him a big hug.
She was only fourteen years old - the same age at which I was introduced to the donor program. What a difference!
My father died April 11, 1986, and we donated his eyes as he had wanted. Three days later Wendy said, “Mom, I’m so proud of you for what you did for Grandpa.”
“That makes you proud?” I asked.
“You bet! Have you ever thought what it would be like not to see? When I die, I want my eyes donated just like Grandpa.”
At that moment, I realized that my father gave much more than his eyes. What he left behind sparkled in my daughter’s eyes - pride.
What I couldn’t know that day, as I held Wendy in my arms, was that only two weeks later I would be once again signing papers for the donor program.
My lovely, talented Wendy was killed when a truck hit her and the horse she was riding along the roadside. As I signed the papers, her words echoed over and over: “You bet! Have you ever thought what it would be like not to see?”
Three weeks after Wendy’s death, I received a letter from the eye bank.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rivers,
We want you to know that the corneal transplantation was successful and now two people who were blind have regained their sight. They represent to your daughter - a person who cared enough about life to share its beauties.
If somewhere a recipient discovers a new love for horses and sits down to sketch one out, I think I’ll know who the donor was. A blond-haired, blue-eyed girl will still be drawing.
- Linda Rivers