When I opened the package Mark had.s. arranged for me to receive after his death, I understood that his final plan reached beyond organ donation: he had also found a way to leave our daughter and me something we could carry for the rest of our lives.
But standing in that hospital hallway, with his doctor in front of me and my husband’s absence still too new to understand, I had no idea what I was holding.
The doctor had hurried after me just as I was leaving.
I had already signed the final donation papers, cried until my face hurt, and somehow made it through the doors of the room where Mark had died without turning around and running back to his bed.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
“Wait. Please, wait.”
I stopped.
The doctor was a few yards away, breathing harder than I had ever seen him breathe, one hand hidden behind his back.
