Two of the operating rooms next to the harvest rooms were going as well, and I got to visit them.  In one, a woman was waiting for a single lung transplant, and in the other, a man was put on bypass to get the new heart.  Yes, the heart in my hands is his old, defective heart, after it was taken out so the shiny new one of the guy who had been shot in the head by members of his former gang could be put in.

So, that’s the picture.  I will say, though, that I was in the room when they finally turned off the machines to let the donor die after everything inside of him was finally ready for the scoop and run.  I remember the room standing still.  Everyone stopped and waiting.  I remember the guy finally flat lining, and I remember something disappearing from the room.  Maybe it was just that all the doctors and real nurses stopped and we were all really present in that moment, together, and then the moment he flatlined, all their attentions scattered to their, specific task, their specific organ.  Or maybe it was that was the donor’s last moment, his last second alive and he filled everyone there who witnessed it.  He glowed in this last bit of his usefulness, and when he died, when he was gone, it deflated.  You can make your own decision.  I was there and even I don’t know.