‘Jed Newton. The hospital? Yes that’s right the wife’s on the list. We was told she’d be a proper good match in the right circumstances but… What? An opportunity has…? I’m not following you, mate. Listen now, she was informed the chances weren’t great due to the rarity of… What? A dying woman has what…? Are you saying Tracy can have her womb transplant?’
/
‘I went there, Jed, and they’re sure I’m suitable. The head on me’s reeling. I’ve never got my hopes up, no, but now it seems it’ll happen. And I keep thinking of her I do, though I don’t know her name, nor nothing of her except she’s about to die. Some part of me doesn’t want that, but a selfish part does. Three organs for donation she’s authorised but a womb, see, falls outside of normal consent. It’s the family who’ve decided hers can be used. The hospital rang them and they immediately agreed. Jed, we finally have a chance!’
/
I call her Donna, Donna the donor. Her womb is in me now. Must start thinking of it as my womb. Transplant successful and soon fertility treatment will begin. Today’s my thirtieth. Wonder what age she was. Real kindness from her family that. I don’t have the words to thank them, even if I knew who they were. They’ve allowed a complete stranger to fulfil her dream of becoming a mum. And if Jed and I are fortunate – the hospital team are optimistic – I can then try for more children. Not just one. Years of no hope blown away. We’re going to have a family! I get emotional thinking about it, I do. That little voice within that kept saying it’s all make-believe has gone. It’s real!
/
There’s a photo, online and in the papers, of a smiling mother and infant: Tracy and Emma thank dead donor. My husband, John, just shakes his head. Is that in amazement at this byproduct of our daughter’s passing? It’s more likely the loss of her, less than a year ago and still raw for us. John went upstairs after looking at the photo. He often sits down on the bed and stares into space, seeing Philippa somewhere outside the window, beyond the suburban streets, beyond the surrounding countryside, maybe even beyond the distant sea. He wants her to return.
Losing Phillipa broke us into thousands of fragments. We still find them daily – jagged, hurtful, ripping. But today I’ve glimpsed her legacy: ‘a miracle birth due to the selflessness of the donor’s parents,’Tracy said. Phillipa, a single mother, left one other item to the world: her son, Tom, six now. Her final gift to us, unexpected yet treasured.
Just one dark cloud: I need to share with John my scan results. Not yet though. He has enough worries. Soon, because I’m very concerned. I’m glad he went along with my suggestion of the womb donation. Leaving something for others after you die is good. Yes, good.
