I rub my eyes, which are burning. Dry. Tearless.
“Did you hear about the paranoid dyslexic?” I say. “He’s always afraid he’s following someone.”
Once, bad jokes had distracted my father enough to stop being scared. It isn’t working for me, though.
There is a soft knock on the open door. A woman steps inside. “Edward?” she says. “I’m Corinne D’Agostino. I’m a donation coordinator with the New England Organ Bank.”
She’s wearing a green sweater with leaves embroidered on it, and her brown hair is in a pixie cut. She reminds me of Peter Pan, which is ironic. There’s no Neverland here, no everlasting youth.
“I’m so sorry about your father.”
I nod. I know that’s what she’s expecting.
“Tell me a little bit about him. What did he like to do?”
Now
“That’s pretty amazing,” Corinne says. “How did he get involved in that?”
Did I ever ask him? Probably not. “He thought wolves got a bad rap,” I reply, remembering some of the talks my father used to give to the tourists who swarmed Redmond’s in the summertime. “He wanted to set the record straight.”
Corinne pulls up a chair. “It sounds like he cared a lot about animals. Often, folks like that want to help other people, too.”
I rub my hands over my face, suddenly exhausted. I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore. I just want this to be over. “Look, his license said he wanted to be an organ donor. That’s why I asked to speak to you.”
She nods, taking my lead and dropping the small talk. “I’ve talked to Dr. Saint-Clare and we’ve reviewed your father’s chart. I understand that his injuries were so severe that he’s never going to enjoy the quality of life he used to have. But none of those injuries have damaged his internal organs. A donation after cardiac death is a real gift to others who are suffering.”
“Is it going to hurt him?”
“No,” Corinne promises. “He’s still a patient, and his comfort is the most important concern for us. You can be with him when the life-sustaining treatment is stopped.”
“How does it work?”
“Well, donation after cardiac death is different from organ donation after brain death. We’d begin by reviewing both the decision you made with the medical team to withdraw treatment and your father’s status as a registered donor. Then, we’d work with the transplant surgeons to arrange a time when the termination of life support and the organ donation could be done.” She leans forward, her hands clasped between her legs, never breaking my gaze. “The family can be present. You’d be right here, along with your father’s neurosurgeon and the ICU doctors and nurses. He’d be given intravenous morphine. There would be an arterial line monitoring arterial pressure, and one of the nurses or doctors will stop the ventilator that’s helping him breathe. Without oxygen, his heart will stop beating. As soon as he is asystolic, which means his heart has stopped, you’ll have a chance to say good-bye, and then we take him to the operating room. Five minutes after his heart stops, he’ll be pronounced dead, and the organ recovery will begin with a new team of doctors, the transplant team. Typically in donations after cardiac death, the kidneys and liver are recovered, but every now and then hearts and lungs are donated, too.”
It seems almost cruel to be discussing this, literally, over my father’s unconscious body. I look at his face, at the stitches still raw on his temple. “What happens after that?”
“After the organ recovery, he’s brought to the holding area of the hospital. They’ll contact whatever funeral home you’ve made arrangements with,” Corinne explains. “You’ll also receive an outcome letter from us, telling you about the people who received your father’s organs. We don’t share their names, but it often helps the family left behind see whose lives have been changed by the donor’s gift.”
If I looked into the eyes of a man who had received my father’s corneas, would I still feel like I didn’t measure up?
“There’s one thing you need to know, Edward,” she adds. “DCD isn’t a sure thing, like donation after brain death. Twenty-five percent of the time, patients wind up not being candidates.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s a chance that your father will not become asystolic in the window of opportunity necessary to recover the organs. Sometimes after the ventilator is turned off, a patient continues to breathe erratically. It’s called agonal breathing, and during that time, his heart will continue beating. If that goes on for more than an hour, the DCD would be canceled because the organs wouldn’t be viable.”
“What would happen to my father?”
“He would die,” she says simply, honestly. “It might take two to three more hours. During that time he’d be kept comfortable, right here in his own bed.” Corinne hesitates. “Even if the DCD isn’t successful, it’s still a wonderful gift. You’d be honoring your father’s wishes, and nothing can take away from that.”
I touch my father’s hand where it lies on top of the covers. It’s like a mannequin’s hand, waxy and cool.
If I fulfill my father’s last wish, does that wipe clean the karmic slate? Am I forgiven for hating him every time he missed a meal with us, for breaking up my parents’ marriage, for ruining Cara’s life, for running away?
Corinne stands. “I’m sure you need some time to think about this,” she says. “To discuss it with your sister.”
My sister has trusted me with this decision, because she’s too close to make it.
“My sister and I have talked,” I say. “She’s a minor. It’s ultimately my decision.”
She nods. “If you don’t have any more questions, then-”
“I do,” I say. “I have one more question.” I look up at her, a silhouette in the dark. “How soon can you do it?”
That night, I tell my mother that Cara and I have talked, that she doesn’t want to deal with this nightmare anymore, and I don’t want her to
I just don’t tell her when. I am sure she’s thinking that the termination of life support will be a few days from now, that she will have time to help Cara process all those emotions, but really, that’s completely pointless. If I’m doing this to protect Cara, then it should happen fast, before it hurts more than it has to. It’s not enough that I’m making the decision; it has to be carried out as well, so that there’s no more second-guessing and she can’t tear herself up inside.
My mother holds me when I cry on her shoulder, and she cries a little, too. She may have split with my father, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t love him once. I know she’s lost in her thoughts about her life with him, which is probably what keeps her from asking too many questions I cannot answer truthfully. By the time she remembers to ask them, everything will already be done.
After she goes to keep vigil in Cara’s room again, I sign the paperwork and call a funeral home on the list Corinne has given me, and then I leave the hospital. Instead of going to my father’s house, though, I drive to the highway that runs past Redmond’s and park along the shoulder near the reservoir where we once went fishing.
It takes some bushwhacking to find the overgrown trail that my father led me down years ago, the one that heads back toward the wolf enclosures. In the dark, I curse myself for not bringing a flashlight, for having to navigate by the glow of the moon. The snow in these woods is up to my knees; it’s not long before I am soaked and shivering.
I see a light on in the trailer at the top of the hill. Walter’s still awake. I could knock on his door, tell him about this decision I’ve made on my father’s behalf. Maybe he’d break out a bottle and we’d toast the life of the man who was the link between us.
Then again, Walter probably doesn’t have a bottle there. My father always said a wolf’s sense of smell is so advanced it doesn’t just notice shampoos and soaps-it can scent what you’ve digested and when and how, days after you indulged. It can smell fear, excitement, contentment. A wolf pup is born deaf and blind, with only its sense of smell to recognize its mother, and the other members of its pack.
I wonder if the wolves know I am here, just because I am my father’s son.
Suddenly I hear one mournful note, which breaks and falls a few steps into another. There is a beat of silence. The same note sounds again, as clear as a bow drawn across a violin. It makes something inside me sing like a tuning fork.
