“That’s what I want to do,” she said, resolution in her young voice.
We bowed our heads, but I peeked. She folded her hands and squeezed her eyes shut with such earnestness, her dark lashes crinkled. And she prayed.
“Jesus, please forgive me for all the wrong things I’ve done,” she said. “Sometimes I am mean to my sister and brother, and sometimes I disobey. I’m sorry.”
Then she asked Jesus to lead her for the rest of her life.
And He did.
10
9:00 P.M., SATURDAY, MAY 31
Scott steps into the crowded chapel and motions to me from the doorway. Tember climbs off my lap so I can get to him.
“Dr. Yun wants to talk to us,” he says. “He has the results of Katie’s dye study.”
Perhaps, finally, we will hear some positive or, at least, productive news. I gather Sam and Tember, and we follow Scott to a bank of chairs against the far lobby wall. Dr. Yun, carrying a clipboard, stands nearby. Sam sits down and Tember perches on the arm of his chair, her legs draping over his lap; Scott and I stand next to the doctor. Our friends gather near the chapel door and grow quiet. They are too far away to hear our conversation, but all eyes are on us.
“Dr. and Mrs. Vaudrey, we have completed the dye study on Katherine. She took the procedure well and is stable,” Dr. Yun says. “We ran dye through her carotid artery and down into her heart; then we scanned her. The study reflects only minor damage—just some bruising that could heal nicely in a few days.”
He clears his throat. “However, we also ran the dye upstream into Katherine’s brain in an attempt to determine the location of her bleed. The scan reveals that because of her extremely high intracranial pressure, none of the dye was able to flow into Katherine’s brain.”
He glances down at his watch. “It is now after nine o’clock, and Katherine’s accident was around three. Because of the size of her bleed and the resulting pressure inside her skull, it is evident that no blood flow has been able to enter her brain since that time. This means her brain has been without oxygen for more than six hours.” He pauses before continuing.
“Dr. and Mrs. Vaudrey, I am very sorry, but your daughter has experienced a brain death.”
Dr. Yun’s words reverberate inside me like an earthquake. What? No! We are still in this fight! The race to save her isn’t over! Despite the fact that twice today I sensed that Katie was gone—once when the nurse called our house and again when I first saw Katie in the trauma room—I honestly still believe we can bring her back, that somehow she will pull through.
A hushed fog envelops me, and Dr. Yun’s words drift quietly into the background. A brilliant scene—a vision?—flashes before my eyes in high-def detail:
From a skyward vantage point, I see Katie’s gold Ford Taurus cruising toward work along Illinois Route 68, the scenic stretch of country road canopied by towering oaks between our house and Bandito Barney’s. Through the rear window of her Taurus, I can see Katie slumped over the wheel, unconscious as a car approaches in the oncoming lane. Just before the two cars pass, Katie’s lifeless body rolls sharply to the left, turning the steering wheel—and her car—into the path of the approaching vehicle.
But right before impact, a brilliant-white, lightning-fast ethereal being—Jesus?—swoops down and scoops her up into His arms. The two cars collide in a violent impact, but Katie is already safely soaring through the trees, a look of utter delight on her face, her hands lifted high, as if she’s on the roller coaster ride of her life. Cradled in His arms, she sails toward the heavens, through the trees, until their images blend into the wispy white clouds, beyond the blue sky, and out of sight.
All of this flashes before my mind’s eye in a microsecond, and it makes no sense whatsoever. Why would Katie be unconscious before the impact when it was the crash that broke her neck, cracked her skull, and caused the massive bleed in her brain?
Nonetheless, this is the illogical scene that plays before my eyes like a Technicolor movie.
I shove the vision aside and snap from my fog. My thoughts turn quickly to Tember, my youngest, sitting across from me on Sam’s lap. She is only fourteen. Does she understand that “your daughter has experienced a brain death” translates to “your sister is dead”?
In that instant, before my eyes can even turn to meet hers, a long, guttural wail fills my ears and sends chills down my spine—an involuntary cry of agony from Tember’s pierced soul. She understands.
Our youngest daughter puts her hands to her face and lurches forward. Sam catches her in his arms and holds her tight as he, too, erupts in tears. He helps her to her feet, and Scott and I wrap our arms around them both, huddling together, clinging to one another as the reality of the doctor’s words crashes down upon our shoulders, wave upon incomprehensible wave.
Our friends stand motionless, watching.
Dr. Yun waits. In gentle professionalism, he gives us several moments for the initial waves of shock to subside. At last, in carefully stated words, he speaks again: “I can’t begin to imagine how hard this must be, and I am deeply sorry for your loss. However, I must ask you a difficult question. Your daughter signed the organ donor line on her driver’s license, and she is an excellent candidate for donation. Would this be something you would consider for her?”
Give away Katie’s organs? But I have barely swallowed the reality that she is gone! The sharp juxtaposition of my gutted emotions against Dr. Yun’s pragmatic question feels surreal—like an out-of-body experience. But his gentle question forces me to reengage the rational side of my brain. Strangely, as if tapping into someone else’s levelheaded mind, I find I can think.
What are our options, really? For six hours, her brain has been devoid of oxygen. It’s no longer telling her to breathe. And it keeps forgetting to tell her heart to beat. Three times already, Katie has coded, her heart shocked back to a sustainable rhythm with electric paddles. Even the most basic of human brain functions is not happening for our girl. It is clear that Katie will never awaken from her coma and that her brain is so severely impaired, even her physical survival is not a long-term possibility.
I recall my prayer in the chapel just moments ago. Even though I want to be one of those parents who makes treks to a nursing home where my comatose child lies, I am not being offered this privilege. Katie is trying to die. Her mind is already gone, and her body wants to follow.
We’re a medical family. We have all signed the organ donor lines on our driver’s licenses. We are all strong believers in organ donation—in theory. After all, what’s the point of burying or cremating a body with perfectly good organs that could give someone else life? But now this philosophical issue has become personal. It is staring Scott and me in the face, tapping its watch and demanding a prompt decision.
We have no better option for our daughter. The decision is easy. We will do as she wished.
“Absolutely we would allow it,” Scott responds. “Absolutely. We know how important it is, and Katie would want it. We will donate her organs.”
“She was all about life,” I add, the past tense “was” sticking in my throat. “She would want to help others live if she cannot live herself.”
Sam and Tember nod their agreement. We are of one mind.
“I am so grateful,” Dr. Yun says. “It’s no small thing to give the gift of life to others in the midst of your own loss.”
“The decision is effortless,” Scott says. He is right.
“Very well. I will have the transplant coordinator come meet with you and explain how the process works,” Dr. Yun says. “And there are some papers to sign. Meanwhile, we will move Katherine up to the surgical ICU and begin preparing her for transplant surgery. Once she is settled in, you can go see her.”
Scott nods. Dr. Yun leaves and motions for a woman standing nearby to approach. She is the organ transplant coordinator.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to let Katherine be a donor,” she says. This is such a reflexive and right dec
ision that her expression of gratitude feels out of place. Plus Katie is nineteen and signed the donor line on her license. I’m guessing asking our permission is just a polite kindness and not an actual necessity.
“After Katherine is settled in a surgical ICU room upstairs,” she continues, “we will draw her blood so we can do a crossmatch and determine her compatibility with possible recipients. Organ donation is a two-part procedure: Once matches are found, someone from the donor registry will begin contacting those individuals who are a good match with Katherine so they can prepare for surgery on their ends. The entire process of matching donors and recipients takes about twenty-four hours, so Katherine’s surgery will likely be late tomorrow night.”
It’s a barrage of information. Scott signs the consent form for the crossmatching of Katie’s blood.
Everything is happening too quickly, but there is no slowing down. We have just learned that Katie is brain-dead—and now we are being swept along this rushing river toward Katie donating her organs and her heart beating its last.
We have about twenty-four hours to say goodbye to our girl.
11
“WE NEED TO LET EVERYONE KNOW,” I say, nodding toward our friends, who are still watching in silence. Scott walks over to them. From his med school training and ER experience, he knows that once people hear, “Your loved one is dead,” they will hear nothing else you say, so it’s essential to get all the pertinent information out first.
Our friends gather around as he approaches. No one speaks. Scott’s back is facing us and I can’t hear his words, but I know instantly the moment he reaches the part of our horrid story that says, “. . . and so Katie is brain-dead.”
A reflexive, tribal-like wail of grief rolls from the mouths of our friends and echoes off the marble walls of the lobby. “Nooo!” two of Katie’s girlfriends cry out.
I tighten my arms around Sam and Tember. Everyone is in tears. They begin to embrace one another. Undoubtedly, many of the adults are crying for our loss, but the teenagers have lost one of their own. Katie and her friends have loved one another deeply and well. They have lived their lives together throughout junior high, high school, and into college. Looking at their beautiful, tearstained faces, I am sickened by their loss.
Scott explains briefly that we are following Katie’s wish to be an organ donor. Then he rejoins Sam, Tember, and me. “We need to tell the older kids.”
“I want them to hear this news from me, face-to-face, when they land,” I say. “I don’t want them to find out their sister is brain-dead over the phone. And I can’t bear the thought of them sitting on that plane all night, carrying this grief alone.”
“This kind of news travels quickly,” Sam says. “Someone is bound to text them.” He’s right. I turn quickly toward the crowd in hopes of halting any well-intended messages. Scott catches my arm.
“We should release them to go home now, too,” he says. “I feel bad—they’ve been here for so many hours. They must be exhausted.”
Katie’s friends don’t look anywhere near ready to leave. My guess is they’ll want to see Katie one last time to say goodbye. But in their current emotional state, I fear they might become overwhelmed—and I have no reserve to comfort them. I am bone-dry.
I swallow. “Let’s offer them a chance to say their goodbyes.”
The weeping grows quiet as I approach. Katie’s girlfriends stand huddled together near the front of the crowd—Ester, Darla, Melissa, Caitlin, Marie, Kati Harkin. And then I spot Casey, the remarkable young woman who has mentored Katie and her friends for these past four years. She stands behind the girls, arms around them like the wings of a mother hen. I exhale. It will be all right. Casey is here.
“Hey, everyone.” I say. “Thank you so much, guys, for being with our family through this mess. We are heartbroken. And we are deeply grateful for you. Katie is being tucked in upstairs in the ICU so they can get her ready for her organ donation surgery tomorrow night. Tomorrow will be just for our family”—I am making this up as I go—“but once Katie is settled in, we invite you to say your goodbyes to her tonight. Or if you’d rather remember Katie as she was the last time you saw her, we understand that too. Whatever works best for you—that’s what we want.”
“One more thing,” I continue. “Matt, Andrea, Bethany, and her boyfriend, Adam, are catching a red-eye from LA. They don’t yet know that Katie has been pronounced brain-dead. I want them to hear this news from me in person, not by accident via a text from a friend. Can you guys please, please help that not happen? Don’t text about this until after they land at five tomorrow morning, okay?” They nod solemnly.
I scan my eyes over these people. They’ve been here for hours. They are weary, disheveled, with pale faces and reddened eyes. I’m flooded with gratitude for each one—and for God, who wired into human beings the innate desire to be known deeply, to love one another well, and to live in community together. This is what it looks like when people live as He intends. In the midst of unspeakable pain—such selflessness, such generosity of spirit, such utter beauty.
My friend Gail approaches and wraps me in her arms. My shoulders relax and I let her hold me. For a brief moment, I give myself permission to receive—to not “be on” for my heartbroken younger children but simply to be a mama who has just lost her daughter.
“I prayed God would make her mind whole,” I tell Gail. I think about the vision—and the look of utter joy on Katie’s face as she soared toward eternity in Jesus’ arms. “He answered that prayer.”
During the next hour, Katie is transferred to an ICU room. Scott’s role as his daughter’s ER physician is finally over. He stands talking with our friends, numb with shock but grateful for their presence. Sam, Tember, and Katie’s friends stand in clusters, holding one another, talking. Several kids from this morning’s drama party are here, along with Deanna and her family—and the leaders from our church’s youth groups. We are not alone in this, and we are not parenting our children alone. We never have been. Community is in full swing.
My mind turns to Matt and Bethany. “The kids likely will call me as soon as they get to the gate at LAX,” I say to Scott. “I will find truthful words to tell them without spelling out the final verdict. Then I’ll try to meet them at the gate at O’Hare tomorrow and tell them the news in person, hopefully before they read about it in a text.”
A little after ten o’clock, my phone rings—Matt. Give me the right words. I pick up.
“Mama. We’re at the gate,” Matt says. “The plane leaves in an hour. Andrea and Adam are here with me. Bethany is walking around somewhere. I think she’s in search of a Starbucks. How’s Katie?” he asks.
I swallow. “She’s stable, but she’s in a coma, and it’s looking very grave.” Three truthful statements.
Silence. He sniffles.
“I love you, Matt.”
“Love you, Mama.”
“I will be there when you land.”
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rings again. Bethany this time. It’s the first time I’ve talked with her since all of this began.
“Hi, Mom,” she says. Her nose sounds stuffy. Like Matt, she has been crying.
“Hi, beautiful.”
An elongated pause hovers in the air. No words seem to fit.
“Bethany, how are you doing?”
“I’m all right,” she says, exhaling. “Thanks for flying Adam out too, Mom. That helps a lot. We are all hanging together and doing all right. Andrea’s been great about taking care of details. Mom, how’s Katie?”
I swallow again and repeat my three truthful statements. Before she can ask any questions, I change the subject. “Did you get packed all right?”
“Eventually,” she says. “Matt and Andrea dropped me off at my apartment so they could go home and pack. But my roommates were gone, so I was all alone. I was so rattled, I couldn’t think. But I read somewhere that people in comas can sometimes be reached by stimulating their senses, so I put together a basket for my
sister—scented oils, a mix tape she made me of her favorite songs, stuff I’ll bring her at the hospital.” Ugh.
“Then I tried to pack, but I couldn’t concentrate. Randomly, this girl who was my freshman RA stopped by and found me standing there, crying, with only pens and underwear in my suitcase. I couldn’t think of anything else to pack but pens and underwear!” We laugh.
The RA stayed with Bethany until Adam arrived. Adam packed her suitcase, tucking in a black dress and shoes, unnoticed—just in case.
“I’ll pick you guys up at the airport in the morning and take you straight to the hospital,” I tell Bethany. “Try to sleep on the plane, if you can.”
“Yeah, right!” she says. We both laugh. My energetic daughter has not slept on a plane or in a car since she was about two years old. Too much life happening around her—and too much going on in her mind.
“I’ll try,” she promises.
“See you in a few hours, Bethany. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom. Tell Dad I love him. And the little kids.” In our family, the “little kids” are Sam and Tember. She doesn’t mention Katie. Does she know? Perhaps at some unconscious level, we all know.
12
THE CROWD IN THE CHAPEL BEGINS TO THIN. Gail’s husband, Bill, offers to take me to the airport in the morning to get the kids. He’ll pick me up at four o’clock while Scott stays here with the younger kids and Katie.
Soon it’s just Katie’s friends and a few of my girlfriends—Leanne, Gail, and Susan. Leanne’s husband, Jimmy—the one who slipped our pastor a note during the church service—spent the past several hours here unnoticed, pacing the halls downstairs, deep in prayer for us. Just last night, their daughter Ester and Katie were catching up over coffee, recapping their freshman experiences and plotting a beautiful summer together. Now Katie is gone. I don’t know what time Jimmy finally left the hospital, but it was late. And I know his prayers will continue on our behalf. These are just a few snapshots of people we will never forget.
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