Last gesture, new life

From the nebula of his fatigue, he wonders if one day he will have grandchildren to whom he can explain this ordeal.

His entire visual horizon is a jumble of machines, lights, rhythmic noises, and the footsteps of nurses who enter, speak with sweetness, and caress his surrendered, plugged-in, battered body.

Health is like the air we breathe: we take it so much for granted that we are unaware of the privilege of enjoying it until we need it. And even more so when we are as young as he is. When everything works, you are unaware of the magic. You can climb the stairs, run to catch the bus, eat without thinking about salt, go out with friends without calculating the fatigue, make plans without asking yourself if your body will keep up. You live without understanding that these very normal gestures are small daily miracles.

Now it seems very far away, but there was another time, relatively recently (everything in his life is from recently), when illness was something for others, for older people or those with bad habits. He has done nothing to be this way. He is very young, too young to depend on a machine to live.

He had spent half his life wishing for extraordinary things, without knowing that the most extraordinary thing of all is living an ordinary life. At Christmas, he had sometimes bought a lottery ticket, without realizing that the big prize is not having to worry about tomorrow.

All that took a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn when he finally went to the doctor because he was very dejected, short of breath, felt dizzy, and one day even lost consciousness.

It was hard for him to accept the diagnosis, "it can't be, I have never smoked, I am a healthy person," he said, "there must be a mistake." But he was getting more and more tired. Even doing the most essential things became a mountain for him, and every day it got a little harder. And despite the medication, despite his caution, and despite following the doctor's instructions to the letter, little by little he entered a limiting spiral. His life began to shrink. "I look like an oyster," he thought when he saw that he hadn't had the strength to leave his house for a long time. "But oysters make pearls and I only manage to dwell on the fear of dying."

The diagnosis, the wait, getting on the list of transplant candidates. Time, a sword of Damocles, and living tied to a phone that always had to have service, that always had to be answered, wherever he was.

But the heart did not arrive. His circumstances have made the wait long: his case is very difficult, he is a tall guy and his blood type is not very common.

Until everything rushed, worsened very abruptly and he had to be admitted.

“You are a priority,” the cardiologist told him. You are at the very top of the list. What an obscure privilege, to know that in the whole country you are the person most in need, the first on the list.

And here he is. Plugged into a machine that will give him a little leeway.

He has one month left to live.

Thirty days.

Four weeks.

He needs a new heart.

He really wants to live. He still has to do many things, he wants to see an aurora borealis, he wants to write a book, he wants to learn how to make a paella, he wants to play with the band again. He desperately needs someone to give him a heart. He tries not to stop to think about what that means.

***

The call reached his parents, because he was already admitted. The tense wait turned into frenetic activity.

And while they wash him, he closes his eyes and finds himself addressing the donor. "I don't know who you are. I don't know what your name was, what you liked, what dreams you had. I don't know if you were also thirty years old or how long your life was. But I know that a part of you is about to give me an opportunity that I had almost already lost."

He only had five minutes with his parents. Bright eyes, a hug with a mask, "we'll see you on the way out". He is very weepy and doesn't want the last thing his parents see of him before the operation to be tears. He gives a thumbs up, swallows, and gives them a tired and half-sleepy smile.

On the way to the operating room, where he will be surprised to see so many people, he thought that, come what may, at least this is over. That he will not live one more day with this anguish. He tries to avoid thinking about what will happen if it doesn't go well.

The anesthesiologist told him "count to ten", and he doesn't know what number he reached before falling asleep, just as he doesn't know how much time has passed when he wakes up. Someone with a mask whose eyes are smiling at him says "everything went well, congratulations". He doesn't answer. He is terribly sleepy.

He will never know who that person was, what their voice was like, nor their interrupted dreams. He won't be able to personally thank the family that, in the midst of immense pain, said yes to the donation proposal. Every beat of his heart will always remind him that someone, in the most difficult moment of their life, had the generosity to think of others.

He can only repay that gesture in one way: living intensely, loving without reservation, taking advantage of opportunities without sparing any joy, scraping to the corners everything that is granted to him.

Behind every transplant there are two stories: the excruciating pain of someone who leaves prematurely and the stubbornness of life starting over; and two families who will never meet, but who will always be linked.

So thank you to all those who, even in the most painful moment of their existence, are capable of making such an immense gesture of love, this maximum altruism.

This writing is dedicated to Ferran, who thanks to the infinite generosity of a family was reborn at the beginning of September. It is also dedicated, from the deepest part of my heart, to the excellent professionals of the public health system, to whom I promise, solemnly, now and always, absolute loyalty and a commitment to never vote for any party that threatens to cut their funding.

And, above all, it is dedicated, with infinite gratitude, to those who gave him the second chance: the family of the anonymous donor.