I wrote that other post in hopes that I wouldn't write this one. But here I am.
It's Heart Day, the anniversay of Shane's last heart transplant, so of course, I have Shane on the brain again.
Heart Day was hard when Shane was alive, too, because it forced us to think of Shane on the operating table, his ribcage cracked open for the second time, suspended in a short death before the surgeons put him back together again. It forced me to think of his mom and dad in some waiting room, thinking of everything that could happen, everything they'd survived, trying to be ready for whatever happened next.
You're never ready, that's the thing.
I have signed the back of my license to show that I want my organs donated. So did the black girl whose heart lived in Shane's body for two years. I think of how she signed it and wondered for a moment if it would ever come to pass... that she would be young and healthy enough for her organs to be of use to someone when she died. Maybe she thought she'd die suddenly, if she died young, in a car accident. That's what I always think of, since we sign our driver's licenses in NY State to show willingness to donate.
She didn't die in a car crash. She was stabbed to death, fourteen times through the chest by an enraged boyfriend. Her heart, though... it was immaculate, unscathed, a jewel lifted from one ribcage to be set within another.
I had this weird daydream today that Shane was here with me, walking toward me, wearing his cargo shorts and one of his hawaiian shirts. In the dream, his big eyes watched me with a kind of serenity, and he wasn't smiling at all. I tried to move closer to him, and suddenly felt that if I could just unbutton his shirt, press my lips on his chest, something would slip from my soul to his heart. It would beat stronger. It would keep beating. Never stopped.
2 comments:
"Jo. Jo. Jo. Jo. JO. JO. JO! JO! JO!"
"WHAAATT?"
"Hi." and then "Jo. Jo. Jo." ...
I guess I always thought of Heart Day as more of a nice thing than a sad thing — probably because I was only ever around to celebrate it when Shane was still with us. What better way to say "We care" than to have a party celebrating the fact that someone's still alive?
The First Anniversary of Shane's Third Heart party is one of my most salient memories from Old St. Basketball, as Heather likes to call it. "Penis muffin ti — " *crash* "um, Jo, are you laughing or crying?" And then Shane and I had to take you to get your ankle X-rayed before we could buy sugarfree jello for diabetic jello shots. Three college students in the car, and only I had a liscense. Strangely, I don't drive anymore either, except on the occasional road trip. I'm a belated convert to your tribe. But sitting in a hospital waiting room with Shane was an experience. He taught me a game he liked when he was in and out of hospitals all the time growing up: What Do They Have?
Loud whisper: "THEY'RE PREGNANT."
I will remember it always. Or as long as I last, anyway. I'll always be glad that Shane lived as long as he did, in spite of the defective hearts.
I always tell people about his mom losing her penis link bracelet on campus and Shane having to go to the lost and found to ask if anyone had found it.
"What does it look like?"
"Well, it's ... silver ..."
Jessica
That's lovely, Jo.
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