My grown daughter, Sara, and I were
very good friends. She lived with her family in a
nearby town which allowed us to see each other very
often. In between visits we wrote or talked on the
phone.
When she called me, she always said, "Hi, Mom,
it's me," and I'd say, "Hi, Me, how are you
today?" She often signed her letters simply,
"Me." Sometimes I'd call her "Me"
just to tease.
Then my poor Sara died suddenly, without warning,
from a brain hemorrhage. Needless to say, I was
devastated! There can be no worse pain for a parent
than to lose a beloved child. It took all my
considerable faith to keep going.
We decided to donate her organs so at least that much
good could come from such an otherwise tragic
situation. In due time, I heard from the Organ
Retrieval Group telling me where all her organs went.
No names were mentioned, of course.
About one year later, I received a beautiful letter
from the young man who received her pancreas and
kidney. What a difference it made in his life!
Praise God! And since he couldn't use his own name,
guess how he signed his letter: "Me"!
My cup runneth over.
There wasn't
anything wrong with the chicken salad. It was quite
tasty, actually. I especially liked the little pieces
of cashew in the mixture -- but then, I'm sort of
nuts about nuts. Elizabeth, however, is not. In fact,
our 10-year-old is allergic to peanuts. Horribly so.
If she touches a peanut product -- or someone who has
touched a peanut product -- she breaks into a rash.
And if she eats anything with peanuts or peanut
butter in it... well, it can get ugly.
Fast.
That's why she
reacted to the chicken salad that was served at a
recent reception. It was those bits of cashew (cooked
in peanut oil, it turns out) that got to her. Within
minutes, her eyes were red, her throat was scratchy
and her nose was congested -- clear indications of an
allergic reaction. So what did I do?
Well, I did what I
thought any good father would do under the
circumstances. I told her to tough it out. Then I
munched down another chicken salad sandwich.
"But Dad, I
really don't feel good," she said, huge tears
welling up in her eyes.
"I know,
honey," I said. "But there can't be much
peanut oil on one little piece of cashew. Drink some
water. Eat a mint. Sit and rest. It'll pass and
you'll be fine."
Elizabeth looked
appealingly to her mother, who suggested it wouldn't
be such a bad idea to take our daughter home.
"OK," I
said. "But Elizabeth, I want you to put on your
pajamas and get ready for bed. No TV. No playing. If
you're too sick to stay, you're too sick to
play." OK, I'm no Johnnie Cochran. It was the
best I could do with a mouth full of chicken salad.
Elizabeth didn't protest, which should have been my
first clue that this wasn't a glorified bout of hay
fever.
Still, I was
startled when her little brother bounded down the
stairs in a panic.
"Elizabeth
can't breathe!"
Thankfully, that was
a slight overstatement. She was breathing, but she
was struggling mightily to do so. She could barely
force out enough air to speak, she was trembling like
a leaf and her lips were beginning to turn a
frightening shade of blue. We had her out the door,
into the car and on the way to the hospital before I
could even think of a rhyme for "Your father is
an idiot."
Interestingly, none
of the skilled professionals working in the emergency
room that night told Elizabeth to tough it out, or to
drink some water, or to eat a mint. They heard the
words "allergic reaction" and sprang into
action with death-defying speed and dexterity. She
received a shot of Adrenaline, a steroid I.V. and an
oxygen mask within minutes of her arrival in the
E.R., and before long my daughter was resting
comfortably -- with wonderfully red lips.
Two hours later, we
were on our way home, but not before the doctor
delivered a short-but- stern lecture.
"You almost
waited too long this time," he said. "As
soon as she reacts, you react." His words were
chilling, and have stayed with me from that moment to
this: "You almost waited too long." What
did he mean by that? What might have happened had we
waited longer? I don't even like to think about it.
How could I ever
forgive myself for waiting too long? And how many
times have I done that in my life -- you know, waited
too long?
Have I waited too
long to praise, to give a word of encouragement, to
console, to comfort, to say "I'm sorry"?
I'm sure I have. But
no more. From now on I'm going to react more quickly
to the needs of those around me, to do what needs to
be done when it needs to be done -- just like the
doctor said. His words were like Adrenaline for my
hesitant heart, or chicken soup for this
procrastinator's soul.
