We will be asked to get a CT scan that will confirm that the blood flow to your brain has been horribly, irrevocably disrupted. We will meet with the organ procurement team. I hold your hand and am amazed how tan you still are against the white sheets. I want to imprint the feel of your skin because I know I will lose this physical connection with you in a matter of hours. I love the feel of your skin. It is soft. I will remember that you love me but I will not be able to touch you.

There is a vacantness about you now. The fact that your heart still beats and your lungs inflate are irrelevant. 

We will sit with the organ procurement team member and fill out the requisite forms. While we are there they test you by removing ventilator support to see if you will breath on your own. You pass the test. You do not breath. They tell us it may take up to 72 hours before you go to surgery and I don’t know if I can survive another 72 hours with you lying there.

They will call us at midnight. You are unstable and recipients are already being located. We have a few hours with you before they take you to surgery. Yuri, Caitlin and I walk to the hospital in the dark. It feels awkward. For the most part we walk in silence. It is a death march. I want to reach out and comfort them but fail. I refuse to be comforted. I want to wail and fall down like I have seen family members do but it isn’t my nature. We walk on.

I’d like to tell you that my last hours with you provide solace but they do not. The kids take turns in the room. I go in. I yearn to climb up in the bed beside you and go to sleep with you. Can’t we just go to sleep now together forever? Why are you leaving? Why have you left me? There are still people coming in and out of the room and the nurse sits at the window outside. It’s not very private. When we are all together again beside you the anesthesiologist comes in and meets with us. He details your care prior to the surgery. They will be very respectful.

Should I stay with you until they wheel you away? I am torn. I think you have already left the premises. Still, I’m unsure. I don’t want you yelling for me and I’m not there. We walk away. I’m panicking inside. I resist the panic that grips me and makes me want to run back to your side. I can’t leave you like this surely.

In the morning I am filled with unreasonable anxiety. I wish I had elected to have them call me when they took you to surgery instead of upon completion. No one calls to tell me it’s over and I don’t remember when but I call the organ donation contact number. It’s confirmed that the procurement was completed around 9:30 that morning.