A Life-Changing Decision

16 February 2010It was a brilliantly sunny Saturday in August 2003, and I was humming away to myself as I diced potatoes for that night's dinner. I'd just started on the pumpkin when my husband Paul's work cell phone began to sing on the bench.

Paul was up at the neighbours' house, swapping newspapers with them. Normally I would have just let the call go through to the answer phone, but today, for some reason, I picked it up.

"Hello" I said, tucking the phone between my shoulder and my ear so I could continue chopping.

"Who am I speaking to?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.

"Wendy Selby," I replied.

"Do you have a son?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, my mind racing. The phone was now clutched tightly in my hand.

The conversation was moving slowly and tentatively. The anonymous voice wanted to make sure I was the right person before they broke the horrible news.

My son Jared, 22, had been in an accident.

I just about vomited.

How serious is it?" I cried.

"You'll have to ring Waikato Hospital, but he's on a ventilator," was all he would say. Instantly I knew it was serious.

"Do you know the girl he was with?" he asked.

"That's his girlfriend, Johanna, "I told him. "Is she okay?

"She's not quite as bad," he said.

I hung up the phone, and still feeling queasy, dialled the neighbour's house.

"Tell Paul to come home right now," I said.

By the time Paul came down, I had called Johanna's parents to break the news that I still couldn't believe myself.

Our children were in hospital. Jared was on a ventilator. I knew ventilators were a bad sign.

Paul and I were out the door in five minutes flat. The pumpkin lay discarded on the bench.

The next hour-and-a-half as we drove from Tauranga to Hamilton stretched on forever. Finally, Waikato Hospital loomed before us and we rushed inside.

"Pray for a miracle," were the doctor's first words.

I'd been clutching so tightly to hope, and now my heart sank.

"Have you got any other children"? the doctor asked.

"Yes Melanie. She's in Edinburgh on her OE," I said.

Melanie, 24, was 18 months older than Jared and our family was very close.

"Get her home now," the doctor said flatly.

I knew then that there would be no miracle.

Jared and Johanna, 20, had been hit by a female driver who veered off the road and onto the footpath while trying to open a bottle of Coke.

Johanna was in a drug-induced coma with shattered legs.

Jared's head had gone straight through the windscreen and, while his body would have healed, his brain was damaged beyond repair.

Paul and I filed into Jared's room.

My strong and active son was lying on the bed, hovering between life and death and unable to breathe for himself.

You never think about your children dying before you, especially not on a bright, sunny day like that Saturday. But, while the sun beat down outside, my world was shattering like that driver's windscreen.

"You know what they're going to ask us don't you?" I said to Paul.

"What?" Paul asked.

"They're going to ask us if Jared's a donor," I said.

I knew that Jared had 'donor' printed on his licence - our whole family did - but it had never been something we'd discussed.

Your own mortality is something you don't want to address at the best of times, let alone go into details on during a cozy family dinner.

But, even though we had never talked about it, I knew Jared. I knew how kind and caring he was and I knew that was what he'd want.

We'd lost our beautiful son - we couldn't bury all those healthy organs as well.

A few hours later, it was confirmed that Jared was brain dead. The question that had been hanging in the air was now posed. Paul and I said "yes" immediately.

For the next two days, we kept a vigil by Jared's bedside, waiting for Melanie to return. The ventilator went in and out, in and out.

Time was of the essence, not just for us, but for the transplant recipients waiting for Jared's organs. Though they never pressed it upon us, we knew the doctors had to act quickly.

On Monday, August 11, mere hours after Melanie arrived, we said our goodbyes to Jared.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist as his body was quickly wheeled away.

His two kidneys, his heart, his liver and both of his corneas were donated to six different recipients aged from their late teens right through to their 50s.

Blinking, we stepped into the sunshine. In the blinding light of day, everything seemed so surreal. But Jared really was gone.

An engineer in the New Zealand Army, he had served two stints in East Timor. Before they were deployed, it was mandatory to fill out a Will. At the time, we'd stuffed it into a box. "Jared is 19," I had thought. "He won't need this."

The Will stated that Jared wanted a burial.

On August 15, over 700 people from all over the country attended Jared's funeral. Together, we reflected on Jared's brief but brilliant life.

He'd always been a great kid. He loved sport and was a prefect at Burnside High School in Christchurch. He was good at music too and played various instruments.

I missed Jared in a way I didn't even know was possible, but knowing that his death hadn't been in vain, knowing that he'd given six other people a new lease on life, helped.

When you donate someone's organs, you do so unconditionally. Some organ recipients get in touch, some don't.

Three weeks after Jared's death, we were just packing Melanie's suitcase into the car for her return to Edinburgh when the phone rang.

"Hello, its Janice from Organ Donation New Zealand," a voice said.

"Are you sure you want to find out what happened to Jared's organs?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered without hesitation.

"Jared's heart walked to the top of One Tree Hill today," she said.

My own heart swelled inside my chest.

That afternoon, on the way to Auckland Airport, we drove past One Tree Hill. I couldn't help but smile through the tears.

I've never regretted the decision Paul and I made that day. It was what Jared wanted.

I hope other people start to talk about what they want too, so their wishes can be respected at a time when the family don't know which way is up.

The grief and sudden loss left our lives in a thousand tiny pieces.

Now as a family, we're trying to piece back the jigsaw. It will never be complete without Jared and we still miss him terribly. But knowing that somewhere out there his heart is still beating and his eyes are still shining is another piece of the puzzle we can fit into place.

As told to Lucky Break magazine by Wendy Selby.