“Meredith, no,” Daniel said. “We don’t even know—”
“Then we’ll find out,” I said. “Test me.”
People ask if I ever hesitated.
I didn’t.
I watched him shrink inside his own skin for months. I watched him go grey with exhaustion. I watched our kids start asking, “Is Dad okay? Is he going to die?”
I would’ve handed over any organ they asked for.
We were in pre-op together for a while.
The day they told us I was a match, I cried in the car.
Daniel did too.
He held my face in his hands and said, “I don’t deserve you.”
We laughed. I clung to that.
Surgery day was a blur of cold air, IVs, and nurses asking the same questions over and over.
We were in pre-op together for a while. Two beds, side by side. He kept looking at me like I was a miracle and a crime scene at the same time.
At the time, that felt romantic.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Ask me again when the drugs wear off.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I swear I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”
At the time, that felt romantic.
Months later, it felt hilarious in a really dark way.
Recovery sucked.
