decides?” I say softly.
She understands what I’m asking.
“If your father had been conscious when he was brought into the hospital,” Trina says gently, “he would have been asked if he’d like to complete an advance directive—a statement explaining who is his health-care proxy. Who has the right to speak on his behalf for all medical decisions.”
“I think he wanted to donate his organs.”
Trina nods. “According to the Anatomical Gift Act, there’s a protocol for which family members are approached, and in what order, to give a directive for organ donation for someone who’s medically incapacitated and unable to speak for himself.”
“But his license has an organ donor symbol.”
“Well, that makes it a little simpler. That symbol means that he’s a registered donor, and that he’s legally consented to donation.” She hesitates. “But, Edward, there’s another decision that needs to be made before you even start to consider organ donation. And in this state, there’s no legal hierarchy to follow when it comes to turning off someone’s life support. The next of kin of a patient with injuries like your dad’s has to make the decision for withdrawal of treatment before anyone even starts talking about organ donation.”
“I haven’t talked to my father in six years,” I admit. “I don’t know what he eats for breakfast, much less what he would want me to do in this situation.”
“Then,” Trina says, “I think you need to talk to your sister.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Are you sure about that?” the social worker says. “Or is it that you don’t want to talk to her ?”
When she leaves a few minutes later, I tip back my head and let out a sigh. What Trina’s said is a hundred percent true—the reason I’m hiding in this room with my father is because he’s unconscious—he can’t get mad at me for walking out six years ago. On the other hand, my sister can and will. First, for leaving without a word. And second, for coming back, and being thrust into a position that naturally belongs to her: the person who knows my father best. The person my father would probably want sitting next to him, now, if given the choice.
I realize that I am still holding my father’s wallet. I take out the license, rub my finger over the little heart, the symbol for an organ donor. But when I go to slip it back into the laminated sleeve, I see there’s something else in there.
It’s a photo, cut down to fit the small pocket in the wallet. It’s from 1992, Halloween. I had on a baseball cap, covered with fur, with two sharp ears sticking up. My face was painted to give me a muzzle. I was four years old, and I had wanted a wolf costume.
I wonder if I knew, even back then, that he loved those animals more than he loved me.
I wonder why he’s kept this photo in his wallet, in spite of what happened.
Even though I was seven years older than Cara, I was jealous of her.
She had auburn ringlets and chubby cheeks, and people used to stop my mother as she was pushing the baby stroller down the street, just to comment on what a beautiful baby she had. Then they’d notice the second grader walking sullenly beside her—too thin, too shy.
But it wasn’t Cara’s looks that made me jealous—it was her mind. She was never the kind of kid who just played with dolls. Instead, she’d position them all around the house and make up some elaborate story about an orphan who travels across the ocean as a stowaway in a pirate ship to find the woman who sold her at birth in order to save her husband from a life in jail. When her report cards came home from elementary school, the teachers always commented on her daydreaming. Once, my mom had to go to the principal’s office because Cara had convinced her classmates that her grandfather was an astrophysicist and that by 6:00 P.M. , the sun was going to crash into the earth and kill us all.
Even though there was a significant age gap
She understands what I’m asking.
“If your father had been conscious when he was brought into the hospital,” Trina says gently, “he would have been asked if he’d like to complete an advance directive—a statement explaining who is his health-care proxy. Who has the right to speak on his behalf for all medical decisions.”
“I think he wanted to donate his organs.”
Trina nods. “According to the Anatomical Gift Act, there’s a protocol for which family members are approached, and in what order, to give a directive for organ donation for someone who’s medically incapacitated and unable to speak for himself.”
“But his license has an organ donor symbol.”
“Well, that makes it a little simpler. That symbol means that he’s a registered donor, and that he’s legally consented to donation.” She hesitates. “But, Edward, there’s another decision that needs to be made before you even start to consider organ donation. And in this state, there’s no legal hierarchy to follow when it comes to turning off someone’s life support. The next of kin of a patient with injuries like your dad’s has to make the decision for withdrawal of treatment before anyone even starts talking about organ donation.”
“I haven’t talked to my father in six years,” I admit. “I don’t know what he eats for breakfast, much less what he would want me to do in this situation.”
“Then,” Trina says, “I think you need to talk to your sister.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Are you sure about that?” the social worker says. “Or is it that you don’t want to talk to her ?”
When she leaves a few minutes later, I tip back my head and let out a sigh. What Trina’s said is a hundred percent true—the reason I’m hiding in this room with my father is because he’s unconscious—he can’t get mad at me for walking out six years ago. On the other hand, my sister can and will. First, for leaving without a word. And second, for coming back, and being thrust into a position that naturally belongs to her: the person who knows my father best. The person my father would probably want sitting next to him, now, if given the choice.
I realize that I am still holding my father’s wallet. I take out the license, rub my finger over the little heart, the symbol for an organ donor. But when I go to slip it back into the laminated sleeve, I see there’s something else in there.
It’s a photo, cut down to fit the small pocket in the wallet. It’s from 1992, Halloween. I had on a baseball cap, covered with fur, with two sharp ears sticking up. My face was painted to give me a muzzle. I was four years old, and I had wanted a wolf costume.
I wonder if I knew, even back then, that he loved those animals more than he loved me.
I wonder why he’s kept this photo in his wallet, in spite of what happened.
Even though I was seven years older than Cara, I was jealous of her.
She had auburn ringlets and chubby cheeks, and people used to stop my mother as she was pushing the baby stroller down the street, just to comment on what a beautiful baby she had. Then they’d notice the second grader walking sullenly beside her—too thin, too shy.
But it wasn’t Cara’s looks that made me jealous—it was her mind. She was never the kind of kid who just played with dolls. Instead, she’d position them all around the house and make up some elaborate story about an orphan who travels across the ocean as a stowaway in a pirate ship to find the woman who sold her at birth in order to save her husband from a life in jail. When her report cards came home from elementary school, the teachers always commented on her daydreaming. Once, my mom had to go to the principal’s office because Cara had convinced her classmates that her grandfather was an astrophysicist and that by 6:00 P.M. , the sun was going to crash into the earth and kill us all.
Even though there was a significant age gap
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