I know that most people love spring, and, yes, it is beautiful. But it is not my favorite season for many reasons.

I do love the warmth of the sun after a cold winter. That part is good. The flowers blooming are gorgeous, and, yes, that part I love.

However, I am allergic to the pollen. If I could look at the beautiful flowers from a glass box, that would be fabulous for me. It gets so tiring, all the sneezing, itching, watery eyes and dripping nose. Yes, there are meds, and believe me when I say, I have tried them all!

Now be honest: Does anyone truly like the wind blowing the clouds of yellow pine pollen around? Does anyone like getting into their cars in the morning and having to turn the windshield wipers on — not because it is raining but to just push the pine pollen off?

In my mind, for some reason, I don’t think it is officially spring until the red clover blooms. Am I the only one who thinks that way?

My next problem with spring is the clothing issue. What to wear. It is cool in the morning and hot in the afternoon. It is hard for me to know what to wear. And then to have to do that on top of my upbringing. Every Southern woman of my age still sticks to the “don’t wear white before Easter” rule. I know it is supposedly not applied anymore, but no one has ever given me a reason for the rule and a reason for not keeping the rule.

However, when I think of springtime, my thoughts always turn to the spring of 1991. My life and the life of my family changed that year forever.

It was March 24, Palm Sunday. We had been to church as a family. My daughter Lorien, then 9 years old, would be forever gone due to a drunken driver that afternoon.

She died on Good Friday, March 29, and we buried our daughter on April 1, the day after Easter Sunday. Lorien lived in a coma on a ventilator for five days.

But, you know, good things do come from bad. We did organ donation.

On Good Friday in 1991, there were families all over the country who were waking up to a new day and a new life.

Our daughter’s heart was sent to an 11-year-old boy in Pittsburgh. Her liver went to a 20-year-old young man in Atlanta. Her left cornea went to a woman in Mississippi, and her kidney went to a young man in Mississippi.

I will always miss my daughter. But I never for once have ever regretted agreeing to organ donation. It was comforting to know that my daughter did not die in vain. She helped others to live and gave them a chance at happiness and life again.

Spring is a time of year that I have definite mixed emotions. No, I don’t like the painful memories I have, but over the years, I have tempered the pain. I have tried to replace it with the sweetness of the beauty of the season and the sweet memories of my daughter.

I think every year of the donor families and wonder how they are and how their families are. I wonder if they ever think of me. I hope that they pray for me like I pray for them.

On second thought, maybe spring is not so bad after all.



Stephanie Denham’s e-mail address is sdenham@themeridianstar.com.