It was a cold February evening, the day before Valentine's Day, and I was a 10-year-old girl who had no valentines for her class. It was a major tragedy to me at the time, to say the least.
I begged and pleaded for my mom to take me to the drug store to pick up some valentines but she was waiting for my brother to get home from a ski trip.
"I don't care if he never comes home!" I shouted.
He had a great time…so we're told
Of course, my valentines were the most important priority in my mind then and I thought the purchasing of them should be taken care of immediately. Those angry words would haunt me for the rest of my life.
That day started out so normal. We had to be at school early to drop my brother off, and his happiness was contagious. My mom would drop him and a friend off and his friend's mom would pick them up later that day, after the ski trip ended. The day was perfect for skiing, he had a great time…so we're told. The only proof we have is a blurry picture of him at the bottom of one of the slopes in a coat we'd never see again.
Shawn's been in an accident
My mom and I walked in the door to hear the phone ringing. I answered. A very serious-sounding man wanted to talk to my mom. My dad came in from work. We all just stood there, somehow knowing there was something wrong.
"Shawn's been in an accident, we need to go to the hospital," Mom said. How she held herself together is beyond me. I struggled with my guilt over the harsh words I shouted earlier in the day.
No! I didn't mean it! I do want him to come home! Please! I'm sorry!There was no shielding me from this
I waited alone in the waiting room while my parents spoke to a doctor. I sat beside a young girl with a burn on her face from the burner on a stovetop...the things you remember. We were then taken into the dreadful little room reserved for the families of the bad cases. I think my parents knew by now that there was no shielding me from this.
...A 50 per cent chance he'll make it...transfer to St. Michael's Hospital...best chance...
My dad and I stood by while they wheeled him past, but it didn't look like him. I think he was gone by then.
A choice no parent should have to make
He was in the middle of the backseat of his friend's mom's car, on his way home from the ski trip. His head hit the front seat, giving him massive head trauma...a broken pelvis from the seatbelt...multiple cuts, bruises. No one else suffered any major damage. And the cause? Black ice.
Somebody stole his coat from the scene of the accident. My brother was taken away by ambulance and someone took his coat. For years after, whenever I saw one like it I wondered if it was his.
It was a horrible night. I finally fell asleep and I slept through the last chance of seeing my brother alive. My parents had to make the decision to have a brain-dead son or to take him off life support and "see what happens," which meant to let him go. As I ate my last Rolo I realized that I was an only child. It took over 15 years for me to eat another Rolo again.
But his eyes still see. His heart still beats and his lungs still breathe. My parents made a choice no parent should be faced with -- they gave other people life through their son's parts that he could no longer use.
17 years later, I wonder what kind of an uncle he'd be to my kids. Would he be a dad? I wonder if the people and families that received his organs are OK and if they realize what we lost in order for them to gain. Then I look at my kids and I know.
I begged and pleaded for my mom to take me to the drug store to pick up some valentines but she was waiting for my brother to get home from a ski trip.
"I don't care if he never comes home!" I shouted.
He had a great time…so we're told
Of course, my valentines were the most important priority in my mind then and I thought the purchasing of them should be taken care of immediately. Those angry words would haunt me for the rest of my life.
That day started out so normal. We had to be at school early to drop my brother off, and his happiness was contagious. My mom would drop him and a friend off and his friend's mom would pick them up later that day, after the ski trip ended. The day was perfect for skiing, he had a great time…so we're told. The only proof we have is a blurry picture of him at the bottom of one of the slopes in a coat we'd never see again.
Shawn's been in an accident
My mom and I walked in the door to hear the phone ringing. I answered. A very serious-sounding man wanted to talk to my mom. My dad came in from work. We all just stood there, somehow knowing there was something wrong.
"Shawn's been in an accident, we need to go to the hospital," Mom said. How she held herself together is beyond me. I struggled with my guilt over the harsh words I shouted earlier in the day.
No! I didn't mean it! I do want him to come home! Please! I'm sorry!There was no shielding me from this
I waited alone in the waiting room while my parents spoke to a doctor. I sat beside a young girl with a burn on her face from the burner on a stovetop...the things you remember. We were then taken into the dreadful little room reserved for the families of the bad cases. I think my parents knew by now that there was no shielding me from this.
...A 50 per cent chance he'll make it...transfer to St. Michael's Hospital...best chance...
My dad and I stood by while they wheeled him past, but it didn't look like him. I think he was gone by then.
A choice no parent should have to make
He was in the middle of the backseat of his friend's mom's car, on his way home from the ski trip. His head hit the front seat, giving him massive head trauma...a broken pelvis from the seatbelt...multiple cuts, bruises. No one else suffered any major damage. And the cause? Black ice.
Somebody stole his coat from the scene of the accident. My brother was taken away by ambulance and someone took his coat. For years after, whenever I saw one like it I wondered if it was his.
It was a horrible night. I finally fell asleep and I slept through the last chance of seeing my brother alive. My parents had to make the decision to have a brain-dead son or to take him off life support and "see what happens," which meant to let him go. As I ate my last Rolo I realized that I was an only child. It took over 15 years for me to eat another Rolo again.
But his eyes still see. His heart still beats and his lungs still breathe. My parents made a choice no parent should be faced with -- they gave other people life through their son's parts that he could no longer use.
17 years later, I wonder what kind of an uncle he'd be to my kids. Would he be a dad? I wonder if the people and families that received his organs are OK and if they realize what we lost in order for them to gain. Then I look at my kids and I know.
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