A deceased person visited me this week and stayed for the duration of my lifetime when I received a donor tendon. I always thought that organ donations only included the big four: heart, lungs, kidneys, liver. I thought receiving a donation involved much anxiety and long waiting lists. I learned I was wrong this week.
As a recipient of a donor or cadaver tendon as it’s called, I hope I can do the generosity of an unknown dead person justice by once again being able to lift my right arm. I did some snooping on organdonor.gov. One donor can save up to eight lives and enhance up to 75 more. I’m in the potential enhancement category.*
I am aware the next responsibility lies with me. It is more important than ever to make sure I support this little tendon to grow and strengthen in celebration of this thoughtful gift. A gift I am painfully aware was a result of another’s death as well as ongoing sorrow for those who loved that person. I am aware of no way to track down who the donor was or how they came to die. Was it an accident, a fluky heart, or old age? I only know I am here and a part of them remains with me. How can I thank a person who I’ll never meet, never know their name, or where they came from? I assume they lived in the United States but that hardly narrows it down.
I’m shocked by the lack of fanfare. I didn’t receive a certificate stating what I’d been awarded. Relatives of the deceased are not clamoring to tell me stories about them including where they grew up and what they did. There would be silence if it wasn’t for my brain saying, “Remember. This is a hard won gift. Don’t forget.” It could actually be more comfortable to ignore the facts of how I came to be one day raising my right arm except that it isn’t easier and it’s in me.
There are many things we avail ourselves of in this America often forgetting who went before us. I’m not talking about soldiers and frontiers people. Although soldiers of many types have gone before me and contributed to my life. I’m talking about native people who lived on this land long before me. I’m talking about those who toil in dangerous mines and destructive factories all over the world to provide me with electronics and goods that my income could never truly pay for. My mind says once more, “Remember. Don’t get cocky. You benefit from the toil of others.”
Here now is a gift of someone’s actual body. Not their spirit, soul, or unreplenished income but the cells of their body. Would they be alarmed to know they enhanced the life of a 62 year old disabled white feminist lesbian? Did they give any thought to that? Or perhaps they were an older disabled white feminist lesbian. In any case, they are contributing to the causes I support now. That’s the thing about a true gift. There are no strings attached. Give it or not but don’t make it conditional.
My surgeon told me there are no rejection issues with tendons because they have no blood or bone. It made me wonder just what a tendon is in a body. I thought maybe pig’s gut would work. Guts are used to make many things. Looking it up, I see a tendon is made up of primarily collagen. Tendons are very resistant to tearing but not very stretchy. I’ll have to trust the surgeon on his tendon of choice.
There’s an introduction going on between my body and the donor tendon even if there are no rejection issues. The tendon has been temporarily sewn to my bone fore and aft in the hopes they will grow together creating a sure bond. My surgeon disappointed me by saying I wouldn’t be able to pitch in the major leagues. He does think there’s a good chance of notable improvement. I suppose I have to meet him half way. I’ve called the Mariners to give them the bad news. I’m working on a minor league coaching contract just in case.
I was not required to sign any paperwork or agreements certifying that “I, Joceile C. Moore, promise to use this donated tendon and the raising of my right arm thereof to do only good, commit no crime, and vouchsafe for its protection in lieu of my life.” No. Nothing was required. It’s possible I’ve overblown its importance but I don’t think so. It is always on me to recognize a charitable gift when I’ve been given one.
My coworker asked me what I would name the donor tendon. I tend not to name objects. At her insistence, I said I would name it “DT.” She then wanted to know DT’s preferred pronoun. I said I would let her know but imagined it would be “it.” In retrospect, I imagine DT will not have a preferred pronoun different than my own as I have no preference. Hence, use whatever pronoun you like.
As to the possessive, DT will surely become my DT as my cellular being meets with DT at my bone and muscle. As that fusion happens, DT and I will become living proof that there is no difference between me and another person. The difference is only that I became the donatee and someone else became the donor. At this juncture, it’s on me to remember just how lucky I am and do affirmative things with my raised right arm.
To Life.
Joceile
12.19.20
[Picture of me and Scarlett reading while recuperating.]
*The list of body elements that can be successfully transplanted continues to grow including multiple types of tissues, hands, and faces. If I’m going to cremate my body anyway, someone should get use of my spare parts. There are no age limits. Race, health, or ethnicity isn’t a factor. Most major religions support donation. There are 164 million registered donors in this country. Because only about three in 1000 can become donors when they die, everyone needs to register. Registration can be revoked. There are options to choose what is donated. Sign up to be an organ donor. Enhancing another’s life is a good last act.
