Sing me to Sleep - The Epilogue
For readers only!! !
When I finished writing Sing me to Sleep , my daughter wasn’t thrilled with the ending. She liked it, but felt I cut readers off from Beth too abruptly. Excellent point. And since my daughter's experience made SING possible, I wrote the following Epilogue. It got cut in the editing process, but I think readers are as curious as my daughter was, so here it is.
WARNING: This is a massive spoiler. If you haven’t read Sing me to Sleep, don’t read this. (Why would you want to?) But if you have, grab a tissue, sit back and follow Beth’s journey for a few more pages. This is dedicated to Matt, too. He passed away waiting for new lungs.
SING ME TO SLEEP: The Epilogue
My phone rings at 2 AM, and I roll into action. I’ve got three names and phone numbers glowing on my computer screen. I dial the first cell. “Cary? Hey, this is Beth from the transplant center. We’ve got two beautiful lungs for you—do want them?”
“Yes. Thank, God.” She catches back a sob. “Yes.”
I sniff and blink my eyes. “What’s your ETA to the hospital?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Don’t dawdle. See you there.”
I slap water on my face, brush my teeth, and slide into slacks and a sweater. I need to look professional. Even at 3 AM. I run a quick brush through my hair. I cut it in college. Nobody at the hospital ever cares if it’s long or short, curly or straight. Make up? No time. I still use it when there is.
I wake Scott with a kiss. “I’m out the door.” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. This job never gets old. It’s a thrill—every time the phone rings, every time I meet a patient whose life I can help save, every time a surgeon pats my shoulder and complements how I manage the team, every time I stand at the foot of pale blue young man or woman’s bed whom I’ve grown to love and watch new lungs turn him or her pink. Heck, I even love the old farts who’ve smoked all their lives. As a transplant coordinator, the ethics are out of my hands. I like it that way. I just save as many as I can.
Scott rolls over. “You’ve got lungs?”
I nod.
He pulls me back into bed and kisses me goodbye. He knows this routine—knows how long I’ll be up at the hospital, holding hands, wiping tears, making sure the team functions—not like a machine or clockwork—but the genius lifesavers they are.
I linger with Scott a moment, savoring my husband’s caresses. This part of my life doesn’t get old, either. Scott’s cuteness lasted about five years, and then the bald genie cursed him, so I got my bald guy after all. He’s not blind, though, sees more than most people. He’s still way shorter than I am—but that doesn’t matter when you’re lying down. His shoulders still make me crazy.
I kiss one of those shoulders and extricate myself before he makes me late. “You’ve got the kids.”
Seems that first doctor I went to was kind of a quack. When Scott and I got married we found a good OB who specialized in genetic disorders. “No problem. We’ll do amnios. You can have as many babies as you want.”
I miscarried my first two pregnancies. The third made it to twelve weeks, and the baby got tested. “It’s a trisomy baby.” The doctor shook his head, and Scott wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me tight. “We’ll have to take it.”
I stared at him. “But he or she is still alive.”
“He will be born with severe mental handicaps—and some physical difficulties, too.”
“It’s a boy?” That’s all I could think. My baby was a boy.
“We’ll schedule the procedure next week.” He scribbled on my chart.
“So, it’s kind of a miracle he is still alive, isn’t it?”
He stopped and looked up at me. “Yes. You could say that.”
“Then how can I kill him?” Peace flowed through me, and I knew this was right.
Colin lived three years. He suffered. We suffered. But we loved a lot, too. I find peace knowing he and Derek are together. I had two more miscarriages before Dawn was born to light our lives. Last year we adopted the twins, John and Jack, who both have cystic fibrosis. We know how to do this—how to care for them, love them, how to hang on, and how to say good-bye.
I lean over Scott and whisper, “Don’t skimp on therapy just because I’m not here.”
Scott mumbles a promise and presses his lips on my hand. “I love you.”
Love.
My life is full of love, bubbling up and overflowing in the strangest places. Heartbreaks are daily fare in my professional and family life. I shed many tears. Since Derek, I’ve said good-bye to so many.
I’ve discovered something strange, but wonderful. The more you lose; the more you love. Sorrow has yielded joy that took up residence in my soul and gives me strength to give my heart over and over again. No matter how many times it breaks, it’s there whole and strong when I need to open it up and let someone else in.
I still sing.
Lullabies mostly.
For my patients, my babies, my beautiful husband.
And every once in awhile--
For Derek.
When I finished writing Sing me to Sleep , my daughter wasn’t thrilled with the ending. She liked it, but felt I cut readers off from Beth too abruptly. Excellent point. And since my daughter's experience made SING possible, I wrote the following Epilogue. It got cut in the editing process, but I think readers are as curious as my daughter was, so here it is.
WARNING: This is a massive spoiler. If you haven’t read Sing me to Sleep, don’t read this. (Why would you want to?) But if you have, grab a tissue, sit back and follow Beth’s journey for a few more pages. This is dedicated to Matt, too. He passed away waiting for new lungs.
SING ME TO SLEEP: The Epilogue
My phone rings at 2 AM, and I roll into action. I’ve got three names and phone numbers glowing on my computer screen. I dial the first cell. “Cary? Hey, this is Beth from the transplant center. We’ve got two beautiful lungs for you—do want them?”
“Yes. Thank, God.” She catches back a sob. “Yes.”
I sniff and blink my eyes. “What’s your ETA to the hospital?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Don’t dawdle. See you there.”
I slap water on my face, brush my teeth, and slide into slacks and a sweater. I need to look professional. Even at 3 AM. I run a quick brush through my hair. I cut it in college. Nobody at the hospital ever cares if it’s long or short, curly or straight. Make up? No time. I still use it when there is.
I wake Scott with a kiss. “I’m out the door.” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. This job never gets old. It’s a thrill—every time the phone rings, every time I meet a patient whose life I can help save, every time a surgeon pats my shoulder and complements how I manage the team, every time I stand at the foot of pale blue young man or woman’s bed whom I’ve grown to love and watch new lungs turn him or her pink. Heck, I even love the old farts who’ve smoked all their lives. As a transplant coordinator, the ethics are out of my hands. I like it that way. I just save as many as I can.
Scott rolls over. “You’ve got lungs?”
I nod.
He pulls me back into bed and kisses me goodbye. He knows this routine—knows how long I’ll be up at the hospital, holding hands, wiping tears, making sure the team functions—not like a machine or clockwork—but the genius lifesavers they are.
I linger with Scott a moment, savoring my husband’s caresses. This part of my life doesn’t get old, either. Scott’s cuteness lasted about five years, and then the bald genie cursed him, so I got my bald guy after all. He’s not blind, though, sees more than most people. He’s still way shorter than I am—but that doesn’t matter when you’re lying down. His shoulders still make me crazy.
I kiss one of those shoulders and extricate myself before he makes me late. “You’ve got the kids.”
Seems that first doctor I went to was kind of a quack. When Scott and I got married we found a good OB who specialized in genetic disorders. “No problem. We’ll do amnios. You can have as many babies as you want.”
I miscarried my first two pregnancies. The third made it to twelve weeks, and the baby got tested. “It’s a trisomy baby.” The doctor shook his head, and Scott wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me tight. “We’ll have to take it.”
I stared at him. “But he or she is still alive.”
“He will be born with severe mental handicaps—and some physical difficulties, too.”
“It’s a boy?” That’s all I could think. My baby was a boy.
“We’ll schedule the procedure next week.” He scribbled on my chart.
“So, it’s kind of a miracle he is still alive, isn’t it?”
He stopped and looked up at me. “Yes. You could say that.”
“Then how can I kill him?” Peace flowed through me, and I knew this was right.
Colin lived three years. He suffered. We suffered. But we loved a lot, too. I find peace knowing he and Derek are together. I had two more miscarriages before Dawn was born to light our lives. Last year we adopted the twins, John and Jack, who both have cystic fibrosis. We know how to do this—how to care for them, love them, how to hang on, and how to say good-bye.
I lean over Scott and whisper, “Don’t skimp on therapy just because I’m not here.”
Scott mumbles a promise and presses his lips on my hand. “I love you.”
Love.
My life is full of love, bubbling up and overflowing in the strangest places. Heartbreaks are daily fare in my professional and family life. I shed many tears. Since Derek, I’ve said good-bye to so many.
I’ve discovered something strange, but wonderful. The more you lose; the more you love. Sorrow has yielded joy that took up residence in my soul and gives me strength to give my heart over and over again. No matter how many times it breaks, it’s there whole and strong when I need to open it up and let someone else in.
I still sing.
Lullabies mostly.
For my patients, my babies, my beautiful husband.
And every once in awhile--
For Derek.