The Valentine’s Gift You Don’t Have to Buy

If you’re like me, you usually notice the anniversary of a family member’s death on the calendar. My grandfather died on August 9, which was the same day as Jerry Garcia and the anniversary of Richard Nixon’s resignation. I don’t consciously think about it as the date gets closer, but I usually see something on the news that will jog my memory.

We lost my father on Valentine’s Day. We live in a world where Christmas decorations go up the day after Independence Day. So, unlike an arbitrary day, the weeks leading up to a February 14 tend to serve as a constant reminder of a period that I really don’t enjoy diving into. Heart-shaped balloons, Necco candy hearts help to dig up old memories from a protracted illness caused by a failing organ that consumed our lives for a number of years.

The irony in losing dad on February 14 was that it also happens to be National Donor Day, designated years ago by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services to raise awareness for organ, eye, tissue, blood, marrow, and platelet donation.

Every year, I feel an obligation to write about the complexity of why, although February 14 difficult for me personally, it represents a promise of hope for hundreds of thousands of Americans. There’s probably something cathartic about putting my thoughts into writing, so I hope you’ll bare with the personal story to understand why 123,000 American families are counting on your unlikely generosity.

The Gift of Time

For me, my most vivid Valentine’s Day memory will be driving through a snowstorm to pick out my father’s casket.

In 1999 or 2000, my father, Michael, was diagnosed with non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. He was, as his father-in-law put it, a non-drinker with a drunkard’s disease. Diagnosis day wasn’t all that bad — heck, we had a long chat with Johnny Pesky in the waiting room (we talked about Nomar).

Five years prior, dad’s father died of end stage liver failure. On Election Night 2004, I’d be told that my liver enzymes were cause for significant concern. A hereditary ailment was threatening to disrupt our lives in a very personally and financially costly way.

The severity of the disease and its impact became real on Election Night 2002. When you have liver failure, it’s difficult for your body to handle certain medications. Dad had chronic back pain that became complicated to treat. I watched the returns from a hospital in Portland while my father was given a dose of morphine that was too much for his liver. For nine days, he had no idea who he was, was convinced that Gerald Ford was president, and slowly slipped away like a patient rapidly experiencing Alzheimer’s disease.

With medication, dad would bounce back. But, for the next five years, this was our life. It quickly became apparent that to survive this condition, my father would need a liver transplant to survive. His Massachusetts General Hospital doctor, who possessed the warm bedside manner you would expect from Dick Cheney, made it clear that he would not survive the wait for a transplant in New England.

In late December 2005, my parents made the decision to temporarily relocate to Indianapolis, Indiana, where the wait for an organ was much shorter. Within 24 hours of being approved for the waiting list, my father received a transplant on February 14, 2006.

He came back to New England for a few months, but never really recovered. Eventually, he went back to Indiana for medical care. My mother and/or I would travel out most weekends to visit, but had to remain at home to ensure dad’s healthcare would be uninterrupted.

He died of a heart attack related to the complications on February 14, 2007.

So, with that kind of an experience, why would I feel it necessary to make my own case for organ donation?

My father and I both had strong personalities, and as a result, we frequently found ourselves engaging in ridiculous, pointless arguments. The extra time from the final gift of a stranger we will never know, viewed through the optimism of recovery, allowed us to end things in a positive place.

I was the “Youth Governor” of the Maine Model State Legislature, and during our last visit, I visited the Indiana Capitol Building to help the Youth Governor there write his State of the State and win his re-election. Although I didn’t see him much during that final weekend, I remember dad being particularly proud, and our last visit ended on a high note. Our last conversation, minutes after Senator Barack Obama’s campaign announcement, was positive.

I’ve met transplant recipients who are healthy and strong after decades. In each and every case, the gift of life provides the opportunity for more time with a family member.

Today, 20 people will die because they don’t have access to the organ transplant that they need.

Tomorrow, another 20, and another 20 the day after that.

Look, the extra time we had wasn’t glamorous. I’m talking about watching Jaws with my father in a hospital room while he was too weak to speak. Or a brief phone conversation about his new adopted-hometown Colts’ Super Bowl victory.

But we had time. However brief it was. With a transplant, the 20 Americans who will die today could have the opportunity to extend their lives for months, years, or decades.

So, here’s a Valentine’s Day gift that won’t cost you a thing, and you’ll never know you ever gave: register as an organ donor at www.registerme.org.

There’s no truth to the absurd rumors that as a donor, doctors won’t try to save you. There are only certain types of complications where, in a specific, life-ending state, your organs are salvageable for someone else. But the reality is that thousands of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters are in need of more Americans to sign up and make a final gift.

So, while Valentine’s Day is a reminder for me of a difficult period, I find hope and optimism in the idea that in addition to the selfless exchange of cards and flowers, that National Donor Day will cause more Americans to commit to making a final, selfless gift to another American family if the circumstances arise.