Thankful for...

What are we thankful for today?

Chris Henry, the late Cincinnati Bengals player who lost his life on December 17, 2009.  His mother donated his organs.  As a result, four people get to celebrate Thanksgiving with their families.

"I think about Chris Henry every day," Elliot[, recipient of Henry's lungs] said. "And I think about his family." John Green, the trauma surgeon at Carolinas Medical Center where Henry was taken, said that he realized there wasn't much anyone could do for Henry, based on his injuries. Matthew Kinney, the family support coordinator for the hospital, went to be with Mrs. Glaspy in her time of grief. And soon after Henry was declared dead, Glaspy made the split-second, unthinkable decision that her son had not during his life - that he would be a donor for others. "It was a hard decision," Glaspy said. "But it was a decision that I would do again if I had to."

Doug Farrar, Four People Who are Very Thankful for Chris Henry, Yahoo, Nov. 25, 2010.
Our thoughts and prayers go out to you, Mrs. Glaspy.  Thank you.

On a more personal level, I am thankful for my husband, Teacher Man.  And not for all your classic reasons, but just because he's alive.  He is actually alive, sitting on the sofa in his bathrobe, with his bedhead, drinking his third cup of coffee.  Here is our story (and as my cousin Debbie says, you cannot make this stuff up):

We decided to go camping for Thanksgiving. We're all alone out here in Texas.  This year, I just didn't feel like hosting friends or going out.  It's been that kind of year.  So we decided, let's take our pop-up camper and make a memory for our kids.  We arrived on Wednesday, made camp, had a campfire, roasted marshmallows.  Thanksgiving morning, we woke early.  Teacher Man and the kids went fishing. I made pancakes and coffee.  We played some Sorry.  Buddy bailed about halfway through that game, but it was still fun.  Then, Teacher Man went to gather wood for the fire. He planned to roast our turkey on the campfire.  Shortly thereafter, Teacher Man returns.  He's been stung by a scorpion hiding in the wood.

I'm 45 minutes from home.  I've got the dog, the two kids, a camper, and a husband who is going into anaphylactic shock.  It's Thanksgiving.  I'm from New York. What the hell do I know about scorpion bites?

Thankfully, the campsite had cellphone reception.  I grab his Blackberry and find the closest urgent care center.  We all pile in the car, dog included.  Halfway there, Teacher Man says he "can feel [him]self swallowing."   Translation:  His throat is closing up.  His.  Throat.  Is.  Closing.  Up.  I look at him.  Bright red hives cover his face.  His hand is three times its normal size.  His other hand is swollen.  He looks like a lobster. With lobster claws.  We drive faster. 

I do not panic.  Unbidden, dark thoughts enter my mind.  I consider life as an HTP raising my kids without my husband.  Not pretty, even with the insurance money, which Teacher Man thoughtfully points out, is a heck of a lot more in the case of an accident.  Say, a scorpion bite .  Really, in these situations, who gives a flying fig about money?  I just don't want to go through this alone.  This is not the plan.  Teacher Man is supposed to outlive me.  I start praying, not only for him but also for my dear friend Jim's wife, who unexpectedly passed away while Jim was recuperating from his heart transplant.  They had kids.  Live, Teacher Man, live.  Stick to the plan, damn you, stick to the plan.

When we get to the urgent care, they administer an epi-pen shot.  His throat opens up.  He's alive.  Breathe, Helen, breathe.

Thanks for that one, Lord.  Thanks.