An ultimate gift deserves great gratitude
There’s a piece of bone in my neck that used to belong to someone else. The surgeon called it “cadaver bone” — a sanitary medical term that gives distance to the fact that it came from someone who no longer needed it, someone who chose to donate it, someone with a family that was okay with that decision.
That tiny piece of bone replaced a disintegrated disc in my neck. Between each vertebrae in our human spines is a cushiony pad that acts like a shock absorber. Connected to the bone above and below it, the disc provides spacing for nerve roots from our spinal cords, giving us sense and feeling throughout our bodies, enabling us to bend and turn.
We climb out of bed in the morning, run through our daily routines, take care of all the things on our to-do lists, and never once think about all the turning and moving and bending we do every minute of every day.
Until one of those little discs malfunctions. Then hellish headaches, decreasing mobility, increasing pain, tingling, and numbness make the quality of life disintegrate daily in small increments. Most folks in this situation eventually get to the point where enough is enough, and start looking for relief.
In my case, surgery gave immediate relief. The doctor cut through the front of my neck, pulled everything in there aside to get back to my spine, removed the failing disc, replaced it with that tiny piece of bone, fused the two vertebrae and that “spacer” piece of bone between them with a metal plate, backed out slowly, and sewed up the incision. His explanation no doubt would have more medical terminology in it, but in layman’s terms, that’s not a bad summary.
And as soon as I got past the groggy stupor of anesthesia, I realized that my quality of life had already begun to improve.
This surgery would not work without that shaped piece of bone. Even as I marvel at what my days are like without all that former distressing pain, I’m aware of that sliver of bone. Such a tiny, yet crucial piece, obtained at a profound price.
I donate blood often. I placed an official “donor” sticker on my driver’s license years ago. But the commitment level of those practices is nothing compared to the kind of commitment that piece of bone represents.
Among the paperwork that came home with me from my hospital stay was a card that gave me a chance to express my gratitude. The card holds information about how to submit an anonymous letter to the family of the bone donor. Grateful for the chance to say thanks, still I wondered what on earth a person can say in a situation like this. I sat down to compose the letter and found my mind, and therefore my pen, stymied. More than a dozen letters went into the garbage. How do you say to someone, Sorry for your loss, happy for my gain.
Eventually, as is with all writing attempts, the persistent pen on paper produced two thoughts: First, that a way to honor that person is to recommit not only to keep the donor sticker on my driver’s license, but to encourage others to consider doing the same. And to be a supporter of the philosophy that drives organ, tissue and bone donation.
And second, since the quality of my life increased significantly because someone else’s life ended, the way I live my life ought to be worth the gift that was given.
Both are sobering, yet sound commitments to honor the giver. And yet, it seems I still end up benefiting. Strange how giving away a part of ourselves — even in a very literal sense — always comes back to bless us.
You can contact D. Louise Brown at maven_55@yahoo.com or leave a message at (801) 625-4244.
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