Chapter 8 - The Donor Who Could Disappear
The potential donor was a thirty-one-year-old man whose identity we were not permitted to know.
The transplant coordinator explained that the registry had identified a promising preliminary match.
More testing would be necessary.
There were medical evaluations.
Scheduling issues.
Confirmations.
And ultimately, the donor would have to agree to proceed.
Emily listened without interrupting.
When the coordinator finished, she asked one question.
“So this isn't guaranteed?”
“No.”
The coordinator's voice was gentle.
“But it's encouraging.”
Emily nodded.
I watched her face.
She had become very good at receiving hope carefully.
As if hope were a hot dish that might burn her if she held it too tightly.
After the meeting, Rachel went downstairs to call Linda.
I stayed with Emily.
She was looking at the penguin.
“Harold isn't very optimistic,” she murmured.
I glanced at the toy.
“He looks cautiously supportive.”
She smiled faintly.
Then her expression changed.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens if I get worse?”
My chest tightened.
“We'll talk to the doctors.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“I mean what happens to you?”
I stared at her.
“Me?”
“You're spending all your time here.”
“I want to.”
“You've used vacation days.”
“I have more.”
“You haven't been sleeping.”
“I'll sleep.”
She shook her head.
“That's not what I'm asking.”
I leaned forward.
“Then ask me.”
She watched me carefully.
“What happens if I die?”
The question struck with such force that I couldn't answer.
Emily looked away.
“See?”
I swallowed.
“I'm scared of that.”
“Me too.”
I rubbed my hands together.
“But I'm not going to pretend it isn't possible just because talking about it hurts.”
She turned back.
I continued.
“If that happens, I'll grieve.”
“I'll probably be angry.”
“I'll miss you in ways I can't even imagine.”
My voice broke.
“But I won't wish I hadn't been here.”
Emily's eyes filled.
“That's what I needed you to say.”
I nodded.
“I know that now.”
Three days later, she began treatment aimed at getting the leukemia into remission.
The hospital became the center of our lives.
Mornings started with blood tests.
Afternoons were divided by physician visits, medications, and stretches of exhaustion.
I learned the difference between asking Emily if she was okay and asking whether she'd like company.
I learned that sometimes she needed me to talk about ordinary things.
And sometimes she needed silence.
One afternoon, I made the mistake of saying, “You're so strong.”
Emily looked at me.
“Please don't.”
I stopped.
She wiped her eyes.
“I'm not strong because I have cancer.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
She looked toward the IV pole.
“But I'm tired of people acting like I have to be inspirational just to deserve care.”
I sat down.
“Okay.”
She took a breath.
“Today I want to complain.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I nodded.
“Go ahead.”
And she did.
The food.
The uncomfortable mattress.
The constant interruptions.
The way everyone wanted updates.
The smell of disinfectant.
The unfairness of having to fight for a future she wasn't even sure she wanted in its old form.
I listened.
When she finished, I said, “That sounds miserable.”
She burst into tears.
I moved closer.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Then what?”
She reached for my hand.
“You didn't try to make it sound beautiful.”
I held her fingers.
Because there was nothing beautiful about her suffering.
There was only a woman I loved who was hurting.
And love, I was beginning to understand, didn't require me to decorate her pain with comforting words.
As the weeks passed, the donor search continued.
Rachel returned to Columbus for work but called nearly every evening.
Linda alternated nights at Emily's bedside with me.
David recovered from surgery and began driving over with sandwiches from a deli near the hospital.
At first, Emily seemed uncomfortable with the attention.
Then one afternoon, David walked in carrying four paper bags.
She looked at him.
“Why are you here?”
David shrugged.
“Michael's boring.”
Emily laughed.
It was the first time I'd heard that sound in weeks.
But on July 29, everything changed.
I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria when the transplant coordinator called.
She asked me to have Emily contact the team.
I went upstairs immediately.
Emily returned the call with Linda beside her.
I stayed near the window.
The conversation lasted six minutes.
At first, Emily nodded calmly.
Then her face went white.
“What do you mean he's unavailable?”
I stood.
Linda reached for her arm.
The coordinator continued speaking.
Emily listened.
Finally, she said, “I understand.”
When she hung up, no one moved.
“What happened?” I asked.
Emily stared at her phone.
“The donor can't proceed right now.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Why?”
“Personal circumstances.”
“Will they find someone else?”
Emily gave a tiny shrug.
“They're looking.”
Then she lowered her head.
And for the first time since her diagnosis, I saw hope leave her face completely.
That night, after Linda went home, Emily whispered something I wasn't prepared to hear.
“Michael, I need you to help me make a list.”
I looked up from my chair.
“What kind of list?”
May you like
Her eyes were red.
“A list of things I want to do before I die.”
