The testing showed she was compatible.
Even then, there were no guarantees.
Three weeks later, Warren’s condition deteriorated in the hospital. He died under the circumstances the donation team had told us would allow the transplant to go ahead.
For the next few months, I lived in a fog.
Mallory received his lungs.
The surgery was successful.
I learned that through the coordinator because I wasn’t ready to speak to her.
For the next few months, I lived in a fog.
For weeks, grief made every room feel strangely unfinished. Sometimes I still set out two plates before remembering there was only one of me now.
Warren’s shoes were still by the back door.
The house felt too quiet.
Warren’s shoes were still by the back door.
His toothbrush was still beside mine.
I couldn’t move either of them.
Then yesterday, I got a message from an unknown number.
Another message came through.
Hi. This is Mallory. Warren gave me your number before he died.
I stared at it for a long time.
Another message came through.
I hope it’s okay that I reached out. I’m feeling stronger now. I wondered if you’d be willing to meet me for coffee.
My first instinct was to say no.
Then I told myself she probably just wanted to thank me in person.
We met downtown at a café I had never been to.
So I agreed.
We met downtown at a café I had never been to.
