Thursday, February 10
He's dying, isn't he? He doesn't think so--he thinks he'll get a transplant, recieve life from the death of someone who cared.
But my mom talks about him in the way he talked about the election when had I still hoped. "You know, Bush is probably going to win, and we'll have to live with him for four more years," he would say. My mother sits in her computer chair, bends over her laptop, then collapses back into the chair, sighing, "He really needs a new liver."
You know, Alan is probably going to die, probably going to die because not enough strangers cared enough to donate their dead organs. They'd rather keep them to themselves. He will die because too many people are indifferent, too many people are selfish even after their deaths.
Now I have a choice to make, both selfish and selfless: I can be there with him, be there for him, become close to him again for the next few months. And feel the searing pain of loss and separation if--when?--he dies. Or I can stay isolated, stay away, avoid death. And always wonder what it would have been like. And always feel guilty for forgetting about him when he was alive, never forgiving myself for something I could never change.
What a choice.