Something I think about all the time:
My neighbor has a step-daughter who’s a few years older than I am. I met her a couple years ago at a party. She’s funny, in her 30s, the mother of a six-year-old, and currently recovering from a kidney transplant.
After spending more than a year on dialysis waiting for a donor, she found her match this summer. She knows very little about the donor, other than the fact that he or she lost their life shortly before saving hers.
She had surgery in May. Her body accepted the organ as if it had always been there, as if it’s had her name on it for years.
Whenever I see my neighbor, I ask how she’s feeling. Each time I get a better, more cheerful answer.
The first time I inquired, he said, “She’s doing well. We were all worried for so long. It’s a terrible thing to see your children sick.”
I told him I couldn’t fathom it, that I would be a basket case if anything happened to Henry.
To which he replied, “That’s why we should all laugh and eat ice cream every day.”