A Day At The Beach

By TAD BARTIMUS

Sunny, warm Saturdays bring children to the beach. They giggle and shriek. Under the watchful eyes of adults, they play volleyball and splash in the water and roll in the sand. Zaney Ann was doing the same thing millions of other kids do, the same thing she'd done many times, when her sand tunnel collapsed under a wave.

Buried alive, Zaney Ann was suffocating. Frantic, barehanded clawing by family members and onlookers didn't free the 7-year-old for several precious minutes.
Despite their quick efforts, and those of emergency and fire crews who soon arrived, Zaney Ann was in critical condition when airlifted to a hospital. Two days later, as she lay brain-dead, the second-grader's parents decided to donate her organs.

The fate of another little girl, Daphne, influenced the family's decision. Doctors saved her with an emergency heart transplant in February.

Both Zaney Ann and Daphne are from my very small town. We're not all close here, but we all know each other. What happens to one of us touches all of us. After Christmas vacation, we knew Daphne had been missing school and hadn't been feeling well. Most of us thought the 11-year-old had a persistent flu. Then suddenly, she was on a flight-for-life airplane to a big-city hospital, and her name was put at the top of its transplant list. Within a week, Daphne had a new heart.

My town reeled at the news. How could this be? Things like this aren't supposed to happen to children. It isn't fair. It isn't right.

Jars with Daphne's name and picture on them appeared everywhere; within two months, there was nearly $70,000 in a bank account to help offset hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical expenses. 

We were all feeling great. We didn't think too much about the person who died so that doctors could harvest Daphne's new heart. That's not something you can easily get your mind around, even if you wanted to, and we didn't want to. It was very sad, and we knew that somewhere the donor's loved ones were grieving, but our concern was for Daphne. She had been saved. Her life would go on.

Then Zaney Ann died. Once again, my town reeled: How could this be? Things like this aren't supposed to happen to children. It isn't fair. It isn't right.

Zaney was a free spirit who chased butterflies, helped a neighbor plant tomatoes, shared bananas from her family's yard. Surely not Zaney. Not dead. 

What can we do? Nothing. Put some money into a sympathy card; attend the burial; comfort the family. But also commend the parents for allowing Zaney's organs to be donated.

Embracing Zaney's grandmother at the funeral, I heard her whisper in my ear that the family of one of the organ recipients had managed to reach Zaney's mother by phone to tell her how grateful they were. 

"They're not supposed to have any contact, you know," she whispered, "but we're so glad they did. It means the world to know Zaney lives on in others."

I clung to this thought as I watched the small white casket's lid being closed and locked.

Daphne and Zaney Ann remind us of the fragility of life. We get up in the morning and have no idea what will happen to us, or to those we love. We may go through our routine uneventfully. Or, we may have to make our hardest decisions. We can prepare ourselves for whatever comes by realizing we have many ways to help each other. In their worst moment, Zaney Ann's parents gave what they called their daughter's "gift of life" to strangers. Every time I see Daphne, I'll remember Zaney Ann.

© 2002 The Women Syndicate

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