My husband, Ernie, contracted Hepatitis C through blood transfusions after a serious accident years ago.

I know, as must Raymond Berube (“Hepatitis C victim lashes out at CMMC,” April 9) how painfully unfair it felt when he was diagnosed. I also know about moments of despair and anger, of so desperately needing someone to blame, that a target, any target, will do.

That’s how I felt after Ernie’s illness and then death. He was to receive a liver transplant and was hospitalized for the surgery when routine medical treatment went wrong and he died. I was so enraged. I wanted the hospital to acknowledge their blame for Ernie’s death.

As time passed, I realized that the hospital was never going to acknowledge that responsibility, whatever role they had played in bringing about his death. As more time passed, I realized that neither that hospital, nor the one where Ernie had received the transfusions, had caused his death. We didn’t even know that Hepatitis C was identifiable in blood when he was transfused, so how could a hospital or blood donation center be responsible?

Having had this experience eventually led me to a deeper lesson about acceptance than I ever wanted to learn.

There was no one to blame. It just happened. Ernie was just too sick in the end to go on living. And as much as I longed for a way for it never to have happened, I have learned that sometimes acceptance is the only way to heal.
Barbra Crowley, Portland

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