Andrew and Emma
I remember stepping out into the parking lot of the hospital without our son. It was 3 o’clock in the morning. The blackness of the night was softened by a smattering of overhead lights and a strange misty fog. Steve and I walked wordlessly to our car.
Andrew’s car seat was in the back, the blue animal-patterned fabric stained slightly from use. His beloved collection of pacifiers was tucked in the mesh side pocket where he could help himself as needed. He’d just learned to share using these pacifiers – or “nana’s” as he affectionately called them – proudly plucking one out of his mouth and handing it over when asked. “Good sharing!” I’d say as he lit up, eager to repeat the game over and over.
We had recently turned his seat around from rear to front-facing. He had surpassed the recommended 20-lb mark and was officially a big boy now. He loved this new view of the world. Everything made so much more sense facing this way. I loved that I could now sneak peaks of him in the rear view mirror.
His empty seat was beyond comprehension.
As we began to drive away, a helicopter interrupted the silence. We stopped and watched it land. We knew it was coming to pick up his liver, packed in a container to transport to a recipient in Wisconsin. We’d realize later that Andrew’s greatest act of sharing would be upon his death. Five hours after we kissed his sweet face for the last time, his liver was transplanted into five-month old Emma, a cherubic blonde who doctors had given two weeks to live.
***
We returned to our home in Oak Park. Friends and family poured in, wrapping us in a blanket of love. They banded together to help plan Andrew’s memorial service, an intimate gathering in our home. Since Andrew was born and died as the leaves were changing, we titled the service “Seasons of Love” and opened with the song of the same name from the musical Rent. The lyrics were perfect.
525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear, 525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year? Measure in love.
Steve and I sat and held each other as our best friends alternated telling heart-warming stories of Andrew’s life. My sister and brother played the guitar and sang Danny’s Song by Loggins and Messina, a favorite song about the birth of a son. After, we planted a red maple tree for Andrew in the back yard. His playgroup planted an oak tree down the street at Lindberg Park. It was all very beautiful. Yet it was so unreal. Nothing felt real.
***
Just before Christmas we wrote a letter to the parents of Andrew’s liver recipient. We were desperate to find some meaning in our grief, desperate to connect with the little girl and her family. The day after we mailed our letter, we received one from them, our letters crossing in the mail. As we opened the envelope, out dropped a photo of their 7-month old baby girl peeking out of a red gift bag with white hearts. Emma – her face full of color, full of life! We read their beautiful words and sobbed uncontrollably. We’d received the best Christmas gift we could have hoped for.
On Friday evening of Mother’s day weekend, May 2000, Steve and I drove to Madison, Wisconsin. We would meet baby Emma and her parents, Mari and Bill Freiberg for the first time. We checked into a small bed-and-breakfast, full of antiques and quilts; the quiet peacefulness brought us a measure of comfort as we settled in and prepared for this highly anticipated moment. The Freibergs were meeting us downstairs where we’d planned to have lunch together. I was 5 ½ months pregnant with Andrew’s sister, Olivia. The weight of it all – the holiday, being pregnant while grieving Andrew, the anticipation of this day – swirled together in a crazy mix of emotion. My eyes were puffy and my face stained from crying. I longed to kiss little Emma’s belly.
As we descended the stairs, I clutched a Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed animal of Andrew’s. We wanted Emma to have it. We saw them immediately, Mari and Bill’s faces weary from emotion. Bill was holding sweet Emma. We embraced silently, the warmth of strangers bound by a most precious gift.
As we held out Andrew’s Winnie the Pooh to Emma, Mari and Bill flashed a huge, knowing smile at each other. They gazed at Emma who we now saw was wearing a pink Winnie-the-Pooh outfit. We smiled too. We took turns holding Emma, who was surprisingly content in the arms of strangers. At the end of our lunch together at our quiet B&B we asked Mari and Bill if we could see Emma’s belly. They pulled up her shirt. Her long scar ran across her bulging belly, a sign that although Andrew’s liver was in most ways a perfect match, it was a tad big for Emma’s smaller body. She’d need to grow into it. I kissed her belly softly, and smiled through more tears. She was turning one later that week. “Happy birthday” Steve and I said to Emma as we hugged them all good-bye.
Author’s Note:
Above is a shortened version of a longer essay I wrote about our son Andrew and his liver recipient Emma. Andrew died in 1999 at the age of 1 from pneumococcal meningitis. October 23rd is the 25th anniversary of his death, and of Emma’s rebirth. Since that day and over all these years, the one thing that has brought us comfort as a family is Emma. We will always love and miss Andrew AND at the same time feel so grateful that he was able to give the gift of life to this precious girl, now a young woman. Watching her grow and flourish over the years has been an unbelievable blessing to our entire family.
Submitted on behalf of: Jeannette Levitt (Mother)