Colors of Goodbye

by September Vaudrey

  “An aneurysm!” I say. “The neurosurgeon mentioned yesterday that Katie’s CT bleed pattern looked more like an aneurysm than a cranial fracture. An aneurysm in her brain must have burst, knocking her out!”

  This feels like the best news ever. I hug the nurse. It doesn’t change the bottom line. Katie is still gone. But somehow, knowing that nothing could have prevented her death—that it wasn’t the result of Katie’s careless distractions—brings tremendous comfort.

  I can’t help but think of my vision. Katie was indeed slumped over the wheel before impact, just as I had seen. An eyewitness saw it as well—with his own eyes. Maybe Katie’s unconscious body had rolled to the left, turning the wheel into the oncoming lane, just like in the vision. And perhaps Jesus—or some heavenly being—really had scooped her into His arms before impact, carrying her into the next reality.

  I call Scott to tell him about the witness, and he is also relieved. “And it explains her CT,” he says. “Too much blood for a skull fracture. It didn’t add up.”

  The news spreads throughout our family and beyond. How bizarre that we are celebrating how our nineteen-year-old daughter and sister and friend has died.

  20

  SCOTT RETURNS ALONE to the hospital in the early afternoon, bringing a loose, grey knit cap my mom made Katie for Christmas. I pull it over her bandaged head, and she looks a little better. I rummage through my wallet and pull out last year’s family Christmas picture and a photo of all three daughters from Matt and Andrea’s wedding, placing one picture on either side of Katie’s head on the pillow. “This is Katie,” I tell every nurse and doctor who enters, showing them her photos. “This is what she really looks like.”

  The organ donation lady has been in and out all day, monitoring Katie’s oxygen levels, urine output, heart rhythm—all the things that will clear the way for the best possible outcome for her organ recipients. When she sees Scott, she approaches us to go over each donation one last time.

  When healthy donors agree in advance to share that which is no longer of use to them—not just organs, but even bones and skin—it is remarkable how many of their body parts can help patients in need. Scott has said yes to most everything on the list. Katie’s heart, however, is not ideal for donation because of the slight bruising it sustained yesterday from all those electrical shocks.

  “A nine-year-old boy in Wisconsin is awaiting a heart transplant,” the coordinator tells us, “and his family is considering Katherine’s heart for him.” They would prefer a heart in perfect condition, of course. But they are fighting the clock. What if they turn down Katie’s bruised heart and their son dies before a perfect heart becomes available? Such a torturous decision.

  “The surgical techs will come get Katherine for surgery at twelve thirty,” she says as she leaves.

  Scott stands to leave. “I’ll be back with the kids around ten.” He kisses my forehead, then Katie’s. His eyes linger on his daughter, and he exits the room.

  The afternoon and evening are quiet again, just Katie and me and God. A sense of surreal peace hovers in the air. I am prayerful, numb, yet in touch with a depth of pain I didn’t know was possible. I am laid open, eviscerated, raw.

  The organ donation lady pops her head into the room, interrupting my solitary vigil. “I just wanted you to know,” she says, “the family in Wisconsin decided to wait for a better match for their son. We can still use the valves in Katie’s heart, but not the heart itself.”

  Dang. I wanted them to pick Katie’s heart. I feel a weird sense of rejection that her heart was passed over. That family has no idea the sheer volume of life and love that pulsed through this heart. Yet if it were my son, would I risk saying yes to a bruised heart?

  As the organ donation lady exits, I feel God’s presence wrap around me in an almost physical sense, like a weighty, warm blanket. He is tender, yet powerful in His nearness—steadying me, calming my trembling soul, keeping me from slipping under.

  Father, protect that little boy until someone else’s tragedy can save him.

  SUNDAY EVENING, JUNE 1

  My friend Sandy McConkey is flying into O’Hare from Washington State this evening. She and her husband, Bobby, are our closest friends from our years there, and their three sons, Aaron, Brian, and Collin, are like cousins to our kids. Yesterday, when Sandy heard the frantic voice message I left on her machine, she booked the next available flight out of Spokane. Bobby, Brian, and Collin will arrive tomorrow—Brian is forfeiting speaking at his own high school graduation to be here—and Aaron will arrive Wednesday after finishing his college finals. I can’t imagine our family navigating what lies ahead without these people by our side.

  When I spot Sandy in the hospital corridor, relief washes over me. We hug and I bury my face in her neck. She is like a sister to me and a second mom to each of our kids—and I cringe at what it will be like for her to see Katie in this condition. Nonetheless, I lead her to my daughter’s room, and we step inside.

  “Oh, September,” she says, water pooling in her clear blue eyes. We stand together, holding each other and just looking at our girl. Sandy breaks the silence.

  “She still looks beautiful.”

  Scott and the kids arrive promptly at ten o’clock. They look refreshed but numb—until they spot Sandy. Hugs and a fresh round of tears erupt. Sandy is family, and it feels complete to have her here.

  We crowd into Katie’s room, sharing oddly normal conversation. Out in the hallway, my girlfriends Leanne, Susan, and Gail have arrived; but they hang back, ready to step in should we need anything, giving us space as a family.

  Since yesterday afternoon, Katie’s IV line has been pumping saline through her body—standard procedure to flush her organs for donation. She’s received several liters of saline—and she’s beginning to show the effects of all that fluid. Her lips are puffy. The outlines of the delicate bones and veins in her hands are no longer visible under the skin. Her neck is swollen—from the fractured vertebra, I presume. Her heart-monitor alarm keeps going off as her heart struggles to keep beating.

  “She’s not looking so good,” Scott says to me privately.

  “I know. Feels like we are torturing our poor girl.”

  Katie’s body is trying to die.

  Around eleven o’clock, Scott gathers us together: “Hey, kids. It’s time. Each of you take ten or fifteen minutes—or however much time you need—to say your own goodbyes to your sister. Sandy, you too. Then Mom and I will do the same. And then let’s gather around her and pray over her together. We’ll say goodbye as a family.”

  One by one, each of the kids takes a turn behind the blue curtain that separates Katie’s room from the hallway. Long, somber moments, prayerful moments, quiet tears, fitful wrestlings, numbness, exhaustion. And each goodbye ends with a nod toward eternity—and hope.

  Sandy says her goodbyes next, and then it is Scott’s turn. He is in her room for quite a while before he steps from behind the curtain, his face white. He wipes his eyes with the heels of each hand.

  “Well, I didn’t expect that,” he says.

  “What?” I ask. “What happened?”

  “I leaned over her and nuzzled my forehead against hers. All I could think to do was to thank God for such a generous gift as a daughter like my beautiful Katiebug. I cried and held her face to mine. I told Katie how much I love her and how proud I am of the life she lived. And when I was through—and I pulled my head back and looked into her face—she had tears streaming down her cheeks! She heard me! She heard me, I thought. And she’s crying! She’s alive! But then I realized the tears on her face were mine. Forehead-to-forehead, my tears had dropped and pooled into her eyes, and two perfect tears were now running down her cheeks. Katie was crying my tears.”

  “Oh, honey,” I say, hugging him close. “I am so sorry.” Everyone in the hall is now weeping too.

  “I’ll never forget that image,” he says.

  My turn has come, and I step behind the curtain. There she lies. Rem
nants of two tears moisten her cheeks. I have had eighteen hours to say goodbye to my daughter, but as the noose of time tightens, I become panicky. I cup her face in my hands and pray.

  God, turn back the clock, I beg. You’re the God of time. No one will be the wiser. Just turn back the clock and then give Katie a tiny symptom of the aneurysm that lurks in her brain. Give her a bad headache or blurred vision—anything! Then we can rush her to the hospital and save her life. My plan seems ingenious! Why didn’t I think of it before?

  Then this thought occurs to me: Perhaps God already has turned back the clock. Maybe in the first version of this nightmare, Tember mooched a ride from Katie so she could visit friends in our old neighborhood near Bandito Barney’s, as she often did when one of us was heading that way. The Mercedes that struck Katie’s Taurus impaled its full force into the passenger’s door of her car. No one in the passenger’s seat could have survived. I shudder. Had the drama party been on a different day—had Tember been free to visit a friend—I could be grieving the loss of two daughters right now. Thank You, God, that September was not in her sister’s car.

  But I am too greedy to take back my request for Katie. Turn back the clock.

  I kiss Katie’s cheeks, her forehead, each hand. I notice the “Lil Sis” key chain is gone, and the small chip in her nail polish has been freshly painted over—undoubtedly the handiwork of Tember and the bottle of Lincoln Park After Dark she was carrying moments ago when she stepped from behind the curtain. Sister loyalty. Tember is helping Katie go out in style.

  Too soon, my fifteen minutes are up. No more minutes, no more words.

  “I love you. Goodbye, Katiebug. And thank you.”

  Scott gathers us around Katie’s bed. “God never promised us a lifetime of Katie on this earth,” he says. “But He promised us something better: an eternity with her—and with Him. While losing Katie will never make sense to us from an earthly vantage point, how blessed we are that someday we will see her again. We grieve deeply, but we grieve with hope.”

  The unsettling, blunt truthfulness of Scott’s words strikes home. He is right. We were never promised a lifetime with Katie or any one of our children whom we love so much. Each day is a gift. And someday we will see this child again.

  We each lay a hand on our girl, and Scott prays: “Thank You, God, for the gift of Katie. Thanks for how deeply she loved each of us. Thank You that she came to know You at a young age and is now experiencing eternity in Your presence. Thanks for how well she lived out the one and only life You gave her—all nineteen years of it. Help us accept this new reality with honesty and grit and grace.”

  He pauses. He swallows. “Together we commit our daughter and sister and friend into Your care. Amen.”

  I look around this room. How blessed we have been. How blessed we are, even now.

  It is past midnight. Sandy gathers up the kids, and they head for home where she can mother them and tuck them in while Scott and I see this thing out to the end. My girlfriends stay, praying for us in the hall. Twenty minutes to go.

  Right on time and much too soon, two surgical techs arrive. One grabs Katie’s IV pole and monitor cart, the other begins pushing her gurney toward the blue curtain door. Before I know it, she is in the hallway and being wheeled toward the big stainless steel doors with circle-shaped windows at the end of the hall—the entrance to the surgical suite.

  A monitor wire is dragging behind her. I chase it down the hall and set it onto her lap. The surgical techs don’t slow down. I trot next to the gurney because Katie’s right foot with its purple-trimmed sock is now exposed, and I try to tuck her blanket around it to keep her warm. They keep pushing, pushing. I don’t mean to be chasing them, but my legs keep following. This is my last chance to see Katie’s body alive, and my eyes don’t want to lose sight of her. You are stealing her away! Slow down! You’re taking her away too fast!

  They reach the steel doors but don’t break stride. They shove the gurney through, and the doors swing shut, swallowing up my daughter. I reach for the doors—and collapse. Scott catches me and holds me, gently but firmly pulling me back.

  My eyes strain to stay fixed beyond the circle windows of those stainless steel doors, and this is what I see: my little girl laid out on that hospital gurney, with all those wires and the IV pole, being pushed by two strangers down the hall, turning left around the corner. And then, like an empty sailboat being sucked out to the open sea, she is gone.

  21

  MY GIRLFRIENDS, SCOTT, AND I STAND weeping in silence for several moments. Finally Scott speaks. “Do you want to go home?” he asks me, his arm still tight around my shoulder.

  “No,” I say. “Not until it’s over. I’m sorry. But not until her heart beats its last.”

  “No problem, honey. We’ll stay as long as you want.”

  The pain-weary look on my husband’s face shows the sacrifice he is making by staying even one minute longer. He wants to get out of this hospital now. But I simply cannot leave, not while our daughter is down the hall, alone in a strange OR, giving the final gifts of her life. Scott doesn’t hesitate to go with my desires rather than his own.

  We all decide to wait in the hospital rooms where our family slept last night. When we step into Sam and Tember’s room, a familiar face greets us.

  “Beth!” I say. “What are you doing here?” Beth is a friend who attended seminary with Scott and is on staff with him at church.

  “Hey, guys,” she replies in her gentle Carolina accent. She stands and we hug.

  “We were just down the hall,” I say. “You could have come and joined us.”

  “I know,” she replies. “But I just wanted to be nearby, praying for y’all.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “About seven,” she says.

  Five hours. This woman has been here alone for more than five hours, just praying, not wanting to disturb us. The sheer beauty of people.

  Scott steps into the room next door to begin crafting an e-mail update to our friends and family. We have been unable to keep up with the phone calls and e-mails we’ve been receiving, so he sends a group e-mail. Impersonal, perhaps, but it’s the best we can do.

  I climb onto Tember’s bed. Except for about forty-five minutes of sleep last night, I have been awake now for forty-two hours. I elevate the head of the bed so I can recline but still talk with my friends while Katie is in surgery.

  Scott gently shakes me awake. “It’s over, honey. The surgery is over.” He bends and kisses my head.

  I open blurry eyes in a panic and look to the clock—2:37 a.m. Dang! I fell asleep!

  “You conked out midsentence,” Leanne tells me, smiling.

  The organ donation lady stands in the doorway.

  “What happened?” I ask her. “Did everything go all right?” Bizarre question, when the “all right” I’m looking for means my daughter’s heart has successfully beat its last.

  “The surgery went perfectly,” she says, “and everything on the transplant list was able to be harvested.” Ugh. Harvested . . .

  “What time did her heart stop beating?” I want to know.

  She looks down at her clipboard. “Katherine’s heart stopped at 2:18 a.m.,” she says.

  I turn to Scott. “Let’s go home.”

  When we step through the kitchen door, the house is dark and silent. We ascend the stairs and climb into bed. We lie there in silence, staring at the ceiling. Scott reaches over and takes my hand. We are together, yet alone. Scott’s loss is his alone to carry—I don’t know what it is like for a father to lose his little girl. And my loss, too, is mine alone—he can’t know what it is like for a mama to lose her daughter.

  I think of the psalmist’s words in Psalm 139:

  You have searched me, LORD,

  and you know me.

  You know when I sit and when I rise;

  you perceive my thoughts from afar.

  You discern my going out and my lying down;

  you are famil
iar with all my ways.

  Before a word is on my tongue

  you, LORD, know it completely.

  You hem me in behind and before,

  and you lay your hand upon me.

  PSALM 139:1-5

  There is Someone who fully understands. I am not alone. He knows.

  I can’t comprehend how I will face tomorrow or all the Katie-less tomorrows yet to come. But for tonight, I close my eyes, and into His arms I fall.

  Here is the group e-mail Scott sends to our friends:

  Dear Friends and Family,

  Katherine Rachelle Vaudrey died this morning. Her heart beat its last as it was removed by the organ transplant team.

  I have always suspected there could be no worse loss than that of losing a child. Thus far, the pain of losing Katie is every bit as awful as I would have anticipated.

  The rest of our kids—Matt; his wife, Andrea; Bethany; Sam; and Tember—were with September and me this evening as we all said goodbye to Katie before they wheeled her away to the OR. The unity and pride of my family leaves me with a level of gratitude that nearly matches my level of grief.

  Katie brought life to every room she entered. Tonight, she brought life to the bodies of several dying people: As I type this note, a woman at Northwestern Community Hospital is being prepped to receive Katie’s liver. It will save her life.

  A 37-year-old man will receive Katie’s pancreas and one of her kidneys. This will likely save his life. A third patient will receive her other kidney. It will likely save her life.