I’ll never forget that warm summer day in July 1965, when my mother unexpectedly died of a still unexplained illness.  She was only thirty-six.  Later that afternoon, a police officer stopped by to ask my Fathers' permission for the hospital to use my Mother’s aortic valve from her heart and the corneas from her eyes. I was absolutely stunned.  I felt the doctors wanted to dissect my Mom and give her away to other people, it just didn’t make sense as I ran into the house with my tears.

            At fourteen I could not understand why anyone would want to take apart a person I loved and to top it off, my father told them, ‘Yes.”

            “How can you do that to her?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “My Mother came into this world in ONE piece and that is how she should go out!”

            “Linda,” he said gently, putting his arm around my shoulder, “the greatest gift that anyone can give is a part of themselves.  Your Mother and I decided long ago that if we could make a difference in one person’s life after we die, then our death will not have been in vain.  Our life will have served it’s purpose.”  He went on to explain how they both had decided to become organ donors.  The lesson my father taught me that day became one of the most important in my life.

Years passed. I married and had a family of my own. In 1980, my Father became seriously ill with chronic emphysema and moved in with us. For the next six years we spent many hours talking about life, how fast the kids were growing up and how eventually – we are all faced with death.

“Lin, you have had to know death early on when you lost your Mom as a teenager – you were only 14.  Even though you know death – I hope you always “believe” in life.  You can’t let death be the end because it really never is!"

He cheerfully told me that when he dies, he wants me to donate whatever was in good enough condition, especially his eyes.  “Sight is one of the greatest gifts a person can give,” he said, “imagine how wonderful it would be if my eyes made it possible for another child to see so they could draw horses the way Wendy does.”

 Wendy had been drawing horses all her life, winning award after award.  “Just imagine how proud another parent would feel if his/her daughter could draw like Wendy,” Dad said. “Think how happy you would feel knowing that my eyes were making it possible.”

I told Wendy what her grandpa had said, and, with tears in her eyes, she went into her grandpas' room and gave him a big hug.  She was only fourteen years old – the same age I was when I was first introduced to the donor program.  What a difference!!

My father died April 11, 1986, and we donated his eyes as he had requested.  Three days later Wendy came up to me and said, "Mom, I’m really proud of you for what you did for Grandpa.”

“That makes you proud?” I asked.

“You bet!! Have you ever thought what it would be like not to see?  When I die -- I want to be just like my Grandpa.” 

At that moment, I realized that my father gave much more than just his eyes. What he left behind sparkled in my daughter’s eyes – pride.

What I couldn’t know that day, as I held Wendy in my arms, was that only two weeks later I would be once again signing papers for the donor program.  Only this time it was for my lovely, talented Wendy who had been hit by a fully loaded log truck while riding her beloved horse, Poncho. The driver lost control and hit Wendy as she road her horse along the roadside in rural Oregon. 

As Wendy lay in a coma the nurse came up to me and said, "Mrs. Rivers, do you think Wendy would have wanted to be a donor?"

 I looked down at my lifeless little girl who seemed to understand so much more than I could ever comprehend and her words echoed over and over, "You bet!!!  Have you ever thought what it would be like not to see?  -- When I die I want to be just like my grandpa!”

I turned to the nurse and said, "As a matter of fact she would be very proud!"

Three weeks after Wendy’s death, I received a letter from our local eyebank association:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rivers:

We want you to know that corneal transplantation was successful and now two people who were blind have regained their sight. They represent a living memorial to your daughter – a person who cared enough about life to share it’s beauties.

If somewhere a recipient discovers a new love for horses and sits down to sketch one out, I think I’ll know who the donor was. A blond-haired, blue-eyed girl will still be drawing.