by Tavis Smiley
Due to the size of my veins, doctors arranged for a slightly nontraditional way to collect my cells, which took about six hours. The nurse assigned to me said I was the slowest patient she ever had. She rarely left my side, and we knew each other’s life story by the end of the day.
I was swollen and leaning to the side when I was taken by wheelchair to a recovery area after the collection was finished. There was a man sitting nonchalantly in a chair with a small suitcase on wheels beside him. I saw the hospital coordinator hurry in with my cells all wrapped up, placed in a small cooler.
“Where are you headed?” I asked the man, who was dressed in black, though I knew he wasn’t allowed to tell me where he was flying to deliver my donation. “Down south,” he said, and smiled. My recipient and his doctors were waiting somewhere in another city.
The next morning I was so sore and bruised, my upper body looked like I’d been in a fight. Except for one small scar I’d have to point out for you to see, I healed over time.
I sent a letter and gift (an angel figurine) to my recipient along with my donation. After six months I received a thank-you card and gift from him (an earring tree with mirror). These things went through the registry, so neither of us knew the other’s name. He told me about his family and that he was doing well.
When the one-year anniversary of my donation arrived, the registry asked if I wanted to meet my recipient. My first reaction was yes. Then I thought about it. What if we didn’t like each other? What if he felt he owed me something? Would I feel obligated to be part of his family’s life? I’d always wished to be an anonymous philanthropist. While that hasn’t happened yet, I’m grateful I was able to give something far greater than money, and with no strings attached. And so I declined.
On the card my recipient sent me, he asked, “How can I ever thank you?” But I have received thanks. What I knew I received was the chance to literally give a part of myself for another. God chose me as a vessel of healing; somewhere a middle-aged man is enjoying life with his wife and five grandchildren. What could be better than that?
THE LAST DOWN
Torian Colon
The weather in Detroit was beautiful for mid-October. The sun beamed through our bedroom window, and I woke up with a smile on my face. I could feel that something special was going to take place in our lives. I had just given birth to my second daughter a week prior, but my anticipation came from something else entirely.
Harry, my husband, played for the Detroit Lions. This particular Sunday, they were playing the New York Jets. I had a good feeling about the game. He’d sat out a year before, and I had been praying for him and his career. We spoke on the phone before the game, as we always did.
“Baby,” I said to him, “I think you’re going to have a good game today. I’m feeling a couple of interceptions and a lot of highlights on ESPN. I think this is going to be the game! You’re going to prove to them that you’re the best safety on the team, and that you deserve the starting position.”
“I hope so” was all I got from him in return. I knew then that he’d lost faith in himself. We said “I love you” to each other and hung up the phone.
The game was my first outing since having the baby; my mother thought I was crazy for going out so soon after giving birth. But with the weather as beautiful as it was, and me feeling as good as I did, nothing was going to stop me. I put on my new custom-made suit, and my husband’s parents and I headed for the Silverdome.
In our seats, my mother-in-law too mentioned that she had a feeling that something special was going to take place in today’s game. I felt Harry was going to make national news!
The big lion mascot entered the stadium as the game music began to play. The crowd was pumped up and rowdy, some with their faces painted blue and silver, and others dressed from head to toe in Detroit Lions paraphernalia. We sat in the section reserved for wives and family. My husband gave us a thumbs-up and smiled once he located us in the stands. I felt relieved; he had a calm look on his face. It had been a rough season for him. He was a five-year veteran; we hoped this comeback season with the Lions would be his ticket to bigger contracts and more years in the NFL.
Throughout the first quarter, he came in and out of the game. I wasn’t really bothered—I was just relieved that he wasn’t riding the bench. When Harry had a game where he didn’t get what he felt was his deserved playing time, he would mope about for the remainder of the evening.
Then I saw number twenty-nine go down as one of the Jets went down. I heard the hit. But it hadn’t registered in me that player number twenty-nine for the Lions was my husband. I saw the player for the Jets get up, but number twenty-nine, my husband, didn’t move. I remember feeling frozen in time when I saw the stretcher come out on the field. I finally got my legs to allow me to stand up as I cried, “Come on, Harry, get up!” I had seen him get hit much harder in the past and he had always gotten up. I just knew that he would get up this time too. This was supposed to be his comeback game, his “big play” game!
Tears cascaded down my face, and panic began to set in when I saw them tape his head down to the stretcher. I knew then that the hit Harry had taken was a serious one.
My in-laws ran with me down to the locker room area. I became hysterical, and because of all the walking and excitement, I began to hemorrhage. I could feel the warm blood flow down my leg. But I had to get to Harry to see if he was all right.
Once we approached the locker room, we realized we couldn’t get into the area. Reporters and photographers crowded the area outside. Finally, they let us into the locker room. My husband, the man I loved and the father of my children, was lying there with his head taped down to a stretcher. I closed my eyes and said a prayer: “Oh God, please don’t let him be paralyzed.”
Harry said in a shaky voice, “Baby, I can still move my feet! I think I’m going to be okay.”
I responded, “It’s over, Harry—it’s over for you!”
“Baby, what are you talking about? I’m moving my feet!” I stood there crying and shaking my head as if to say no to him, as the team doctors prepared him to be carried away in the ambulance. Once they placed him in the ambulance, we tried to get in the ambulance with him. But he refused to allow us. He didn’t want me, his mother, or his father with him. He wanted to be alone.
My mind raced a hundred miles an hour as I drove down the highway toward the hospital. I thought about how much courage and strength Harry had displayed throughout his life. Coming from a family of eleven children, he always had to be a little stronger.
I began to pray to God for strength myself. I wanted to be calm when I received the news about his injury. Part of me was worried I was going to hear terrible news about something being permanently wrong with Harry’s legs. Another part of me imagined seeing Harry standing up, waiting to greet me.
When I saw Harry lying in the hospital bed, he had an expression on his face that I’d never seen before. Right then I knew everything was not going to be okay. As the doctor entered the room with his clipboard, Harry said, “Just give me the news, Doc!” The doctor responded by saying, “You have seven herniated discs in your neck, and three are bulging.” As he showed us the X rays, we could see exactly the condition the doctor spoke of. Harry’s spine looked horrible, and at that moment I realized that it was only by the grace of God that Harry’s life had been spared.
The doctor continued, “Every time you get hit in this area of your back, these particular discs are pinching down on your spine, causing the paralysis you are experiencing.”
“So can I still play?” Harry asked, as if he didn’t understand what the doctor had just told us.
The doctor replied, “My advice to you, young man, would be to retire from the NFL.”
Harry shook his head and closed his eyes. Although he didn’t shed any tears, I could feel the pain he was going through. He had played football since he was a child. And now his playing days were over. All his years of hard work to accomplish his dream o
f being a starting safety in the NFL had come to an end.
That night, as Harry and I lay awake together in silence, my mind went back over the news we had received earlier in the evening. I didn’t know what to say to my husband. I didn’t have any pep speech to give him, nor any words of encouragement. I was at a complete loss for words.
“Well, babe,” Harry said, “you said this was going to be a special day and that I was going to make sports headlines.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I responded, feeling guilty about my enthusiasm earlier.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Well,” I replied, “God has led us this far, and I have one hundred percent faith that He’s going to continue to lead us on. Just as you always knew you could make it in the NFL, you have to have the same faith that you can make it after the NFL. What happened today was not your last down!”
Several years later, Harry asked me one evening, “Hey, dear—are you bringing the girls to the game this evening?” At the time I was trying to get the girls dressed and ready for school. I responded, “I don’t know, Harry. You know they have dance class today.”
“You’ve got to come to this one! We’re playing one of the best teams in the district! I mean, these boys can really play.”
Harry is now a high school football coach in Houston, Texas. After much prayer, much patience, and much healing, he found his calling.
MATTHEW
Gilda Mack Benton
My husband, Tony, and I had been married four months when we found out we were expecting our first child. We had both dreamed of having children. We couldn’t wait to start our family together!
I had an easy pregnancy, and my husband went to all of my doctor’s appointments in order to share every moment of the experience with me. All of the ultrasounds and other tests came back showing no problems.
We began to shop together for things to fill the new nursery: a rocking chair, a crib, a dresser. We were given three baby showers by friends and family, and from these loving efforts we received everything else we needed.
In my fourth month of pregnancy, we found out that we were having a son. We decided to give our son the middle names of Tony’s maternal and paternal grandfathers: Matthew Nathaniel Benton.
Matthew was born on October 8, 2000, at 4:10 on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. He weighed in at 8 pounds, 11 ounces and he was 21½ inches long. Our hospital room was filled with family and friends after Matthew was born; we could not have been happier! I decided to keep the baby in the room with me because I didn’t want him out of my sight.
At about 4 A.M., when the nurse came to check him, she said he seemed a little chilly and she wanted to take him to the nursery to put him under the warmer. That seemed normal enough to me, so I didn’t ask any questions. I ended up dozing off. When I woke up at 6 A.M., I was startled to realize the nurse hadn’t brought the baby back yet. I immediately called the nursery and was informed that the pediatrician was doing the baby’s morning checkup. As soon as it was done, they would be bringing Matthew back to my room.
About an hour later, the pediatrician came to my room and told me that she had ordered a chest X ray for Matthew, as his breathing appeared to be a little fast. She went on to explain that sometimes infants have minor breathing problems when learning how to breathe on their own outside of the womb. Although this news made both Tony and me a bit nervous, we felt that everything happening was pretty much standard procedure. Thirty minutes later, however, we received another call that an additional chest X ray was necessary. This time, we became extremely nervous.
Shortly afterward another doctor came to our room to give us the results of the X rays. In his hand was a drawing he had prepared to help us understand Matthew’s condition. On one side of the drawing was a picture of a perfect heart with all its chambers and valves. The other side of the drawing was Matthew’s heart; it had only one chamber! My son had a rare heart condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome; he was born with only the right chamber of his heart.
Tony and I were devastated. We discovered there wasn’t any type of surgery available to fix Matthew’s heart. The only thing the doctors could do was to perform a series of minor surgeries to try to redirect the arteries so that more blood could be pumped to Matthew’s organs. In essence, this is what the left chamber of the heart was supposed to do. Matthew would not live long enough to be a patient on the heart transplant registry, so that never became an option. If his condition had been discovered during the pregnancy, the only thing the doctors could have done was recommend a medical termination of the pregnancy. In God’s infinite wisdom, I believe He knew that we would never have considered termination as an option.
During Matthew’s sixteen-day life, he endured more than any child should ever have to. He was a good baby through it all. He didn’t cry a lot, and he always seemed to find comfort in the arms of his mommy and daddy. He had more visitors than I have ever seen a child have in my life. On his thirteenth day with us, however, his kidneys began to fail. The kidney failure caused him to go into cardiac arrest, and he suffered brain damage as a result. At this point, my husband and I prayed that our son be taken back to his Heavenly Father.
The outpouring of love and support from our family and friends was indescribable. We even received letters and cards from people we had never met. They had heard our story from others and wanted to offer their support and their prayers.
We are living witnesses that the power of love makes a huge difference in one’s life. Not only did Black love help us to make it through, but the love from people of all races helped us to triumph over this tragedy. Although Tony and I suffered a great loss, we feel privileged that God allowed us to share the experience of a son whose very life, although short, served to bring people closer together.
On December 26, 2001, I gave birth to another son. We call him C.J., and he was born perfectly healthy. He is truly a blessing to us. We look forward to telling C.J. about the many lives that his brother, Matthew, touched.
MIRACLES DO HAPPEN
Diane Triggs
At 5:30 P.M. on Friday, February 9, 2001, a guard came to my desk at work and asked if I was Diane Triggs. He said that my daughter had been in a car accident. I rushed home; Edna, my sister-in-law, told me my daughter Jonnesse was in critical condition in Paducah, Kentucky.
In a state of shock, I waited for my husband and our other daughter to arrive back home. In disbelief, my husband listened as the hospital’s recorded message repeated, “Get here as soon as you can!” My sister-in-law and two brothers-in-law drove us to Paducah.
Jonnesse was a nineteen-year-old sophomore accounting major at Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. When we arrived at Western Baptist Hospital’s emergency room, we met a gentleman about to finish his shift. We anxiously informed him that we were there to see Jonnesse Triggs. His reply was “Good luck” as he left the waiting room area. My heart was already on the ground.
Once we were able to gather a few minor details at the hospital, we discovered there had been four female students from Fisk University in the car involved in the accident, and all four were in the emergency room. Jonnesse and another student were both on life support.
As they wheeled the girls from emergency to intensive care, we were asked to remain in the waiting room. The doctors did not know if Jonnesse would survive the night. Upon hearing this, I asked for the chaplain.
The police report of the accident stated that the wind had been extremely high that evening. As the Geo Metro Jonnesse was driving on Highway 24 passed an eighteen-wheeler, the wind got under it and threw the small car into the median. The car flipped six times, throwing all four of the students out. From pictures, it looked like someone had taken a giant can opener and opened the roof of the car. Jonnesse had sustained a broken neck and brain injuries. She and another student were in a coma; Jonnesse’s injuries, however, were the most severe. The other two girls sustained fractured necks.
All of the students survived
the night. The next morning, our daughter’s doctor stated that Jonnesse was only a hair away from being paralyzed. She was kept on morphine until she could undergo surgery; if she so much as moved at all, she could end up paralyzed for life.
We did not know a soul in Paducah, Kentucky. I began to pray to God for help. As I sat there in the waiting room, a lady approached me and introduced herself as Ayrie. Ayrie and her fiancé, George, were in the waiting room because her brother was a patient in ICU. Ayrie called a chaplain friend, Mary, from another floor, Mary came in shortly thereafter, like an angel. They began to talk to me and counsel me. As we talked, I began to relax and finally I drifted off to sleep in the chair. When I awoke, Mary and Ayrie invited my husband and me to attend their church the next morning.
Relatives of Jonnesse’s classmates arrived from St. Louis at six that evening, as did our friends and family. The parents of another of the students arrived on Sunday.
We did attend Ninth Street Tabernacle on Sunday morning. At the close of the service, we were invited to the altar for prayer. We cried like lost three-year-olds. I have never seen my husband cry that hard, and I hope I never have to see him cry that way again. The next thing I recall, the female minister, Reverend Burage, began to pray and lay hands on me while Pastor Turner prayed for my husband.
When the service was over, Pastor Turner suggested to one of his members that the church secure a hotel room for us; he immediately assigned a deacon and wife to each of our four families. Each deacon-and-wife team arrived at the hospital that afternoon with keys to rooms at the Drury Inn.
Soon the news of the accident with the four girls from Fisk University spread throughout the town. Our church in St. Louis and the Ninth Street Tabernacle joined to pay our hotel bill. My aunt had a close friend in Hendersonville, North Carolina, and although she knew the friend very well, she had never met the friend’s children. It turns out the children lived in Paducah, and when they were told of our circumstances, they visited us at the hospital and brought us money as well.