I loved David’s eyes. It would be accurate to say it was his beautiful brown eyes that first got my attention at the counter of the Sambo’s restaurant I was a waitress at in the summer of 1978. And it took eight births to get those brown eyes in any of our children. I was thrilled when in the summer of 2003, we finally held a baby that had both David’s brown eyes and my cleft chin, our little Abigail Grace.
Shortly after David was pronounced dead at the hospital, I was asked if he would want any of his organs donated. As painful a decision as that is to make at a time like that, it was an easy one. David had been donating blood this past year. He was a generous person. I knew what he would have wanted. Unfortunately, the only organs able to be donated turned out to be his eyes. Appropriate~David’s beautiful eyes will be used. He would have liked that, I thought as I sat in a small private room, waiting for a phone call from a representative who handled these kinds of phone calls. David, the man said his name was. Appropriate again, I thought, my mind foggy with shock and sadness. It is a wonder the man could hear anything I said; my tongue was thick with grief, my voice a hoarse whisper.
On the very same day that I received David’s official death certificate, papers arrived from the Lion’s Bank, informing me that, thanks to David’s eyes, a 41-year-old woman and a 68-year-old man will receive cornea transplants.
How appropriate. I love you David.
And I loved your eyes.