I picture an older woman standing a little straighter. A girl gripping her arm. A future that almost didn’t happen.
I set the letter aside and read the next one. This one’s from a woman in her early thirties with two children around the same age as mine.
I can chase my boys in the yard again. Now when I get tired, it’s because I ran, not because my body is failing.
I swallow hard through the tightness in my throat. Cora would have loved to learn this. To know she gave a mother more time with her children.
I move on to the next letter. This one’s from a teenager. A liver recipient.
I get to do summer swim team this year. I didn’t think I’d still be alive this summer.
My heart warms. She didn’t just save older people. She saved a child, too. Gave them life.
Just like the person who donated Rowan’s heart gaveherlife.
I reach for the next envelope and lift the flap, pulling out a piece of cream cardstock and unfolding it.
I’ve read all these letters before.
But this one hits differently.
Because it’s from the woman who received Cora’s heart.
Now all I can think about is Rowan. Did she write a letter like this to the family of the person who donatedherheart? Of course she did. There’s no way she wouldn’t have shown her appreciation the first chance she got. I could almost picture her with her journal, toiling over what she wanted to say, worried it wouldn’t properly convey her gratitude.
I smile at the picture in my head and read the letter written by the woman who now has Cora’s heart.
Dear Family,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Because in my mind, you are my family, even if we never meet. You will always hold a very special place in my heart, and not because it belongs to someone you love.
There are not enough words in the English language to properly thank you for what you have given me.
A few months ago, I collapsed at work. One moment I was talking to my assistant. The next, I woke up in a hospital bed with doctors explaining that my heart was failing.
For months, I lived on borrowed time. Medication. Procedures. Waiting.
Waiting to see if my body would stabilize.
Waiting to see if it would give out.
Eventually, I was told the only thing that would save me was a new heart.
I hate that someone else had todie so I could live.
But someone did.
And because of them, I’m still here.
I don’t know their name. I don’t know what their laugh sounded like or what kind of music they loved. But I carry them with me. Literally and figuratively.
Every morning when I wake up, I press my hand to my chest and whisper thank you.
I promise I will not waste this gift.
To that end, I made a list while I was waiting. A life list. A promise to honor my new life by truly living it.
The air in the room shifts.
