I gathered it in my hands as it fell from my hairbrush, too saturated to hold anymore.
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A personal essay. 2nd Place, Kalanithi Award 2020
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It had never occurred to me that I could actually die during the surgery. I know that I never again want to hold anyone else responsible for making care decisions on my behalf in such a difficult situation.
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It is easy to quantify my life in numbers.
I am twenty-five. I've had four cardiac arrests.
There were three extra open-heart surgeries following my transplant: because my new heart initially failed.
I've been the vessel for two hearts.
I've coded once.
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For, Some scars heal.
Some wind their way
And impregnate through
The derma and the fat
The bone and the fascia
Sliced by hands not much older than yours.
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1. So, you got the whole thing replaced? Or just, like part of it?
2. Will you be on meds forever?
3. What is a heart biopsy?
4. Will you need another heart?
5. Do you know anything about your donor?
6. BUT YOU'RE SO YOUNG!?
7. Wow, so you're better now?
Do yourself a favor. Stop what you are doing. Find a quiet place. Close the door. If it is night when you are reading this, take a toke, pour one out, or just affix your noise-cancelling Bose headphones to the forgotten inner vestiges of you and absorb.
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Ah, hello midnight. It's been awhile.
If by awhile, you mean 24 hours, because hey! Wasn't I in this exact same predicament last night?
Huh.
I thought I would no longer sweat the small stuff. I scoffed at the idea that I would still be too afraid to approach anyone remotely out of my league. I thought I would be more assertive, less accommodating, and so, so grateful. I thought a lot of things.
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So here's a toast to the hard part; the sticky part. The part of me that will not try to find the silver lining. That will not stray away from saying the things that are hard to say. For once I won't even try to be grateful. I will not see the bigger picture or find peace in the consolation prize that is being alive.
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INT. CLINIC ROOM - DAY SCENE: A STIFF, METAL CHAIR WITH TAN VINYL BACK AND SEAT. SUBJECT (MID-20S, FEMALE) SITS… EYES GAZE UP AND BEGIN SLOWLY PANNING THE ROOM SHE HAS OCCUPIED A HUNDRED TIMES BEFORE.
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