My husband became an organ donor as his final wish — after he died, his doctor stopped me and said, “There’s something he made me promise to give you only after he was gone.”
Julian and I had been married for three years when I finally became pregnant with the baby we had always wanted.
Our happiness lasted only six months. Then Julian learned about his illness. The doctors gave him no more than three months to live.
He probably wouldn’t live long enough to meet our daughter.
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That evening, he sat beside me on our porch with one hand resting on my belly.
“If my organs are still healthy enough when the time comes, I want them donated.”
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“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking,” I whispered.
“That’s exactly why I have to.”
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He looked at my stomach.
“If I can’t watch her grow up, maybe I can at least make sure somebody else gets more time with theirs.”
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Julian grew weaker much faster than we expected. By my eighth month, I was helping him button his shirts and pretending not to notice when he had to stop halfway to the bathroom just to catch his breath.
