“For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.”
-Carl Sagan
Six years ago, two young adults were on the verge of turning twenty one. One of them being myself, the other my future organ donor. We had never met, came from different backgrounds, had different experiences. Nonetheless, we both had our outfits prepared for our big adult milestone. Mine, a sparkly short dress, lots of pink. His, a matching blue ensemble. Respectively our favorite colors. Our birthdays only a week apart, we were just doing what most people our age would be doing at this time in our lives. Who would’ve guessed that our worlds would collide in such a manner.
On July 27th 2010, I got the call I’d waited for so many years. It’s “The Call” everyone on the organ transplant list is hoping for. Many die before it ever comes. I myself, have faced death multiple times. I was born with a congenital birth defect that resulted in renal dysplasia, and eventually kidney failure. I spent most of my childhood in the hospital, my memories intertwined with incessant beeping, mediocre hospital pizza and other kids just trying to hold on for one more day. When The Call came, all the emotions came with it. In a few hours, my life would change. No longer would I be tethered, depending on a machine for my survival.
Amid our excitement and happiness, my family and I took time to think and pray for the other family. That’s the thing about transplants from deceased donors, when one family has gotten the call that saves their loved one, another family is saying their last goodbye. In the face of such tragedy, we take solace in knowing where one life ends, another will continue.
Timothy was someone’s baby, he has a mother who still mourns him everyday. He’s someone’s brother and uncle. He was a friend to many. His existence was important to the universe. He saved my life, among five others, when he lost his. I will never be able to thank him or his mother enough, she had to make a decision no parent should ever have to make. There is no word in the English language for a parent losing their child. No one should have to go through that.
So when I heard four years ago Travyon Martin was murdered, I immediately thought of his loved ones. I like many others was horrified at what transpired- And continues to happen. Wasn’t life sacred? Shouldn’t we not speak ill of the dead, especially a child? Growing up in a hospital, I had seen many families go through loss, had experienced loss myself. I’ve seen the way illness and death utterly destroys those around it. It forever changes the lives it affects. It doesn’t care about age, race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation or religion. The subsequent grief overwhelms those it touches. On the worst days it’s like trying to catch your breath in a sea storm. Even good days, still feels like you’re lost at sea. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my friends who’ve passed. Their bad days, good days. The mistakes they’d make, the things they’d learn. The life they’d have if they were still here. I can only hope I’m doing them justice by living a fulfilling life.
So that brings us back. Let me state here, I am alive right now because a black man is not.
Our lives are forever connected: part of him keeps me alive. So I cannot stand silent as I watch what is going on around me. As a society we tend to insulate ourselves too much. We have an epidemic of humans being killed in our streets. We cannot honestly say “all lives matter,” when the reality is black lives matter less. Historically, we haven’t treated non-white or non-Christian lives as equal. We may like to think all lives matter, but we’re not making the necessary changes to make it true. Instead, we get defensive, we get prickly just by the simple statement “black lives matter.” As though the mere suggestion somehow threatens white lives.
I implore you to think deeply. Ask yourselves, do you really believe saying “black lives matter” implies that yours does not? If we truly believe that all lives do in fact matter, we must step up and put that into action; words without action are meaningless. To do this, we will need to be brave, face our own biases, fight the fears and ignorance that have been fed to us. We must hold each other and ourselves accountable. Stand with one another, protect one another. We’re all we’ve got, we all deserve better than this.
I point out Timothy was a black man because it’s significant, he could have been anyone. But he wasn’t just anyone, he another human being, had a life. Timothy was funny, enjoyed making those around him laugh. Cared deeply for those close to him. He enjoyed cooking, being goofy pretending he was a chef on TV. He enjoyed looking nice. I can relate, I too have a strong passion for cooking and being put together. We both have been described as outspoken. There’s a belief that we inherit qualities of our donors. It’s wishful thinking for the most part, but I’d like to think that just maybe, I’m a better cook and snazzier dresser thanks to Timothy. He’s made me a better person. Knowing his mother definitely has.
That’s why I needed to write this, to remind people we are all interconnected, we have the ability to save each other, without evening knowing one another. Our blood is interchangeable, organs are interchangeable. On the inside, we’re all the same. The death of one of us is a tragedy equal to our own death.
On the other hand, transplants are not cures, they are just another form of treatment until better options become available. I’m on borrowed time. I want to do right by the life I was entrusted with. To live my life to the best of my abilities. To use my voice to speak against violence and injustice is the least I can do. The least you can do, dear reader, is listen. Show compassion and kindness to your fellow human beings. We all have a right to exist; we’re all made of the same matter.
Dedicated to Timothy and his loved ones.
