The Gift of Perspective
Steve Dishon
Lilly Bennett had been in the hospital for 63 days. She rarely leaves her daughter’s side, usually only at the urging of the nurses, or other parents on the floor. Her husband is not there nearly as much as he would like. He drives a truck for a living and cannot give up the work for fear of losing their home or going bankrupt due to excessive hospital bills.
Lilly’s daughter Isabella has an inoperable brain tumor. She was conscious for the first 39 days, but has been in a coma ever since. There is no treatment that can save Isabella. Lilly simply waits for a match so she can share her organs.
Lilly has made friends with those on the floor since she set up shop over two months ago. The nurses treat her like family. The other parents with sick children offer her some respite and sit with her daughter when Lilly goes to the snack machines that have sustained her through this stay.
Next door to Isabella in room B26 right now is another teenager named Ellen Smith. Her mother, Jennifer, has been wonderful to Lilly. She takes time daily to pray the rosary with her. She will sit with Isabella when Lilly needs a break. She even had her husband stop by their home to mow their yard and water their flowers. Without her support, and other parents who have come and gone, Lilly would have struggled mentally and physically throughout this stay.
Lilly is truly thankful, but there is a nagging feeling of jealousy that constantly tugs at her mind. Her Isabella will never walk out of the hospital. She will never graduate high school. She won’t get married, have children or grow old with the love of her life. As nice as Jennifer Smith is, she won’t have to deal with this. Her daughter Ellen gets to walk out of here. Not fair. Every time these feelings creep in, she slams the door on the green eyed monster.
On day 64, Isabella’s neurologist entered the room. He was accompanied by a social worker and therapist. Lilly’s eyes dropped to the floor and a tear welled up in her eyes. She knew. The match was confirmed. Her daughter would be pulled off of life support, so that another may have a chance at life.
Lilly listened as intently as possible and put up a facade of strength. They would take her daughter tomorrow. After what seemed an eternity, the doctor left Lilly to spend her final moments with her daughter.
As if called by a higher power, Jennifer Smith came next door and offered to pray with Lilly. They both took their spots on either side of the bed and performed the sign of the cross. They held hands across Isabella and began the Apostle’s Creed. Twenty minutes later, they completed the rosary. Jennifer hugged Lilly for what seemed like an eternity and then left.
The following morning Lilly and John Bennett stood behind the bed as they prepared for the Honor Walk. The two looked over Isabella, taking in every inch of her so they could remember her the way she was. With tears flowing, they began the procession. Doctors, nurses and volunteers lined the hallway in silent reverence. Jennifer was there as well. She had developed a deep bond with Lilly. As they passed, Lilly and John gave a silent nod to Jennifer and passed.
As they approached the operating room door, the procession paused. The parents were allowed a final moment. After a minute, John and Lilly touched their daughter for the final time. They held each other’s hands, turned and unexplainably walked out of the hospital. They could not muster the strength to stay any longer.
Two weeks later, Lilly and John Smith entered the parking lot of Methodist Hospital. The rush of emotion flooded them both. They hadn’t been back since their daughter donated her heart to save another child. Lilly didn’t know if she could mentally walk through that door. She was still bitter and frequently looked to heaven and asked why. With the support of her husband, she would do it. One step after another toward the steps, one labored step at a time, she reached the landing platform. The door opened automatically with a whoosh. She stood there as if anchored to the ground.
The door hadn’t been activated from her side, but the other. She watched as Ellen Smith was rising out of her chair that was used to bring her to the exit. Jennifer was standing beside the chair, one hand under the arm of her daughter, pulling her to her feet. Jennifer pulled the chair away with her other hand and looked to the door.
Jennifer paused as her eyes fell upon Lilly, standing like a statue. Jennifer looked to the nurse to ensure that she had her daughter. She then walked briskly to Lilly and enveloped her in a hug. She pulled Lilly forward, motioning to the nurse for her stethoscope. She handed the device to Lilly and implored her to listen to Ellen.
Slowly, Lilly placed the ear pieces in one ear and then the other. She stepped toward Ellen cautiously, reservedly, nervously. Slowly she reached out and placed the chestpiece against Ellen. She closed her eyes as if listening to a symphony in Dolby surround. Tears began running, but this time her lips turned up at the edges- her first smile in 79 days. Isabella was there.
For the first time in months, the pain, the denial and the jealousy subsided. She didn’t have her Isabella as she once knew her, but she did have her, and a new family.
Lilly realized that some gifts require changing perspective.
