A Letter to my donor

Someone else had to die, so that I could live.

 

I was born in the spring of ’81.

6lb 4oz. Five fingers, five toes.

My mother was an artist, divorced at 30, my father took off before I was three.

I never knew him.

I barely remember the days before and what happened after was just my life.

 

As a child, sickness was second nature to me. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of fun, I had friends, I went to school, I was a kid. But there were times when I couldn’t do what everyone else could.

 

At the age of 14 I ran away. I was tired of being told what to do and tired of never being able to do anything. I felt as if life was passing me by and I was merely the observer to other people’s lives.

It didn’t last long. I was back within three days and everything went on as usual.

 

I left home at 18 and never looked back. I moved to the city. I was young, free and single and I enjoyed every moment of it. Sure there were ups and downs but mainly, they were ups. I worked hard on being sociable, trying so many new things, making lots of new friends and basically living my youth. I finally felt as though I had caught up with the rest of the world, however, I never felt as though I belonged anywhere. Sure plenty of people feel this way, but no matter how my life changed and who was part of it, I always felt as if I was waiting for the real show to begin.

 

I was 21 when I predicted I would die from a heart attack.

I wasn’t right, but I wasn’t wrong either. Sometimes you just know there’s something wrong, even when you seem and feel fine. My friends would laugh at my statements; some thought I was just being morbid or funny. But the truth is, I knew it to be my truth. I didn’t expect to live beyond 30 and couldn’t imagine my life past this time.

 

I got to 28 and I knew I was approaching the big 30. I had two years to really live and fulfil my biggest ambition. To travel around the world. It was all I ever wanted and I spent one year saving enough and sacrificing to make it possible. As I suspected, it was the greatest adventure of my life and I wouldn’t have changed a thing about it!

 

We approached the spring of 2011 and my expectations weren’t high. As if by fulfilment, I fell ill late March. The doctors told me I needed a new heart. Even though I’d expected it most of my life, it still came as a huge shock. I guess reality bites no matter how prepared you are.

 

As the months past, I grew sicker and sicker, until eventually I was ready to go. My family was devastated.

It was my time. When it’s your time, it’s your time, right? Wrong!

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

 

You were smart and popular but always quite nice. You lived in a town to the north and spent most of your days as a cheerleader in high school. Once you graduated you went to college with ambitions to be a teacher. You were always so good with your baby bother who was 13 years your junior. Like me, your father wasn’t around. He was still a big part of your life but your parents weren't together.

 

You were a wonderful teacher, so energetic with your students. On weekends you’d be with family or spending a weekend away with your boyfriend, a hotshot lawyer whom you met when you studied in NY. You even considered moving back there. You’d talked about getting married and having kids but neither one of you was there yet.

 

By all accounts your life was going well and you were content. Well as much as anyone.

It was a rainy September afternoon and you were driving down to NY after school. The accountant in the other car wasn’t even looking where he was going.

You never stood a chance.

The hospital declared you brain dead at 10:23pm.

You were just 27 years old.

Your mother was in bits.

 

1 year later

 

I turned 31 today. It’s a day I never thought I’d see. I should be grateful just to be alive. I should be taking advantage of my good fortune and enjoying myself as much as possible, right?

But I can’t help but feel guilty that someone else had to die so that I could live. Was I supposed to die? Was I supposed to live? It’s one of those great mysterious, what was supposed to happen. The point is I’m not living my life, I’m not enjoying myself, I feel more trapped than ever. I can never feel ok with the fact that I breathe while someone else doesn’t. You’re probably yelling inside your own head, ‘wake up and be thankful for what you’ve got’. It’s not that easy.

I feel responsible for two people’s lives and that I have to live for two people now when I never even expected to live for one.

What am I supposed to do? And how do I do your memory justice?

You didn’t deserve your fate and I don’t deserve mine, but if I don’t do something I’ll be wasting us both.

 

It’s time for me to let you go and time for me to move on.

Know that I’ll never forget you.

I want to thank you for giving me a second life and hope that I live my life as fully as you would have.

I’m so sorry….