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The Giver Who Was the GiftBy Elizabeth Westfall Flynn
When I was a kid, I worshipped my big brother, Kemper. He was a loyal friend, someone who always faced down a bully, a protector of his three sisters. And he was cool; he did exciting things. When my parents went out of town, he had parties so big it looked like the world had been invited. Everybody loved him -- but trouble knew where to find him too.
In 1967 he joined the Marines and fought in Vietnam. By the tender age of 20, he had witnessed the decimation of his platoon.
When he finally came home, he was different. Quiet, not interested in the homecoming party my parents wanted to throw for him. Not even excited about the '69 VW Bug they gave him tied up in a bow. He spent the next few years of his life trying to adjust.
But he never did. In 1977, he killed himself, leaving a note asking forgiveness. When his wallet was returned to us, it reeked of exhaust fumes. His death tore my family apart. My parents divorced, and my own heart was broken.
Then, on a brisk, sunny day a week before Christmas last year, I was out shopping and called home from my car to check on my son. "Mom, some woman phoned and said she was hired by the court to find you. It has to do with your brother."
An old forgotten bank account? I wondered. I called her immediately and was connected with a woman who said she was a confidential intermediary. "I have reason to believe," she said, "you are the biological relative of a female born October 21, 1965, who is seeking medical information. Were you aware your brother fathered a child in 1965? Hello?" I was so shocked I couldn't respond.
My brother's girlfriend had become pregnant when they were in high school, and neither Kemper nor my parents ever told anyone. Now his daughter was looking for us. I sat in the car with my foot on the brake and just cried.
Bonnie Jean Phoenix had a happy childhood. Her parents were loving and nurturing -- exactly the kind of adoptive parents Kemper and his frightened girlfriend would have hoped for. But throughout her life, Bonnie had a feeling of disconnectedness. At age 34, she decided it was time to solve the mystery of her origin and she began the search. It took her three years.
The day she walked into my mother's house, I was stunned. A perfect stranger who was the image of my brother -- his nose, his mouth, his blue-green eyes. She looked like an angel standing in the sunlit hallway. He sent her to us, I thought, to love in his place.
I introduced myself, and before I knew it, her arms were around me. She brought a box full of pictures of herself as a child -- playing with a pet, swinging in a hammock. A child who always stood up for others -- a cheery little girl, her face beaming.
In the days and weeks after meeting Bonnie, I realized a weight was beginning to lift. It was anger I'd had for years and never wanted to admit. I was angry at my brother for committing suicide. My parents' marriage collapsed, and my sisters and I worried that life's battles might be too much for our own sons. For the next 25 years, my brother's death and the manner of it haunted us all.
Then Bonnie found us. She is so much like him. She's reminded me of what a good guy he was. She made me believe in happy endings again. She made me forgive him.
It's a Wonderful Life
By Leandra Lynch, MD, from Medical Economics
Fresh out of residency, I moved to Woodland Hills, Calif., to take a job in a small community hospital's emergency department. As the newest member of the group, I got last dibs on shifts. No one wanted to work on Christmas Eve, so the shift went to me. I kissed my family goodbye and went off to spend the night in the hospital. It was a thankless job.
At 9 p.m., the ambulance brought in a man in his 60s who was having a heart attack. His face was pale, gray, and he was frightened. In the early '80s, clot-busting drugs weren't generally available. My patient was unstable, but I did my best and he hung in there. Eventually we were able to move him out of the ER and into the ICU. Before I left in the morning to spend Christmas with my family, I stopped by to see how he was doing. It was still touch and go, but he had survived the night and was sleeping.
Emergency physicians don't have continuing relationships with patients like other doctors. We get the suddenly sick, the wounded. Often they're scared. Sometimes they're angry at us, just because we're there. They pass through our hands and out the door. We rarely see them again. I thought no more about my heart patient. The following year, still the newest member of the group, I got Christmas Eve duty again and dragged myself off to work. At 9 p.m. sharp, the ward clerk told me there was a couple in the lobby who wanted to speak with me.
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