Everyone is mean. There is nothing like a good or a bad heart. It is just mean or meaner. This was my ideology until now. Though the idea had not changed but was just clinging off the edge. My life was just like others, some were dead and some were dying to live. My aspiration for a better life vanished with the onset of adolescence. I have no respect for the life and I don’t bother to regret it. I perceived the world as a hell where I should be able to save myself as far as possible to get the punishment as little as possible. I never planned for my life, I lived it in the savagery of passing time. But the time has just turned the tide and I began to realize that my life might come to an end. I had no regrets of losing my last breath, but a strange feeling just embarked into my head. I never had a feeling of empathy or affection towards anyone. I never cherished the beauty of the nature, but I always thought of passing the moment with soar or a bitter taste.
Waiting for the doctor to arrive and see my medical reports I was lying on the bed no. 13 in the emergency room of the local hospital. Besides me was another patient who was in her early twenties, by face she seemed okay but I overheard her attendant saying on the phone about some disease related to pancreas. On inquiring the attendant said that she had pancreatic cancer specifically pancreatic adenocarcinoma. I looked at her face and didn’t notice that she had any idea about it. For a moment I forgot my pain, but I realized that her ignorance was a blessing at that time. Though she was fighting with a serious illness her face seemed to be full of youth. Her eyes were dark and beautiful enough to lure anyone. For the first time in my life I was observing someone with such an instinct, without knowing the intent of my heart which was the cause of my hospital visits.
A bad heart that always kept me and my close ones on the toes. I often wished for my death, but it seemed the death angel was never interested. The name of my heart condition was ASD (Atrial Septal defect) more precisely premum that usually lead to stroke and this was my third one. I hated my heart and I always prayed for my death so that I would not be a burden on my kin. I hated everyone but for the first time I fell for someone, someone who had just months to live. Time passed and I was relieved from hospital with a prescription and bunch of advisories, but she was still there, only shifted to Oncology Department. During my stay I would pass by her room and peek to get her glimpse, but was always interrupted by paramedics and ward boys. The last time I saw her, she was engulfed by the vitals monitoring machine and an oxygen mask probably it was her post op. avatar. Still her eyes were catchy and beautiful. I wanted to be there with her just seeing her eyes for rest of my life. I think that is called love, I don’t know, I never had felt it before or was it something else? I don’t know, I have no idea. I still remember a moment when she looked at me while I was peeking through a door crevice, I think she wanted to say something, I don’t know, maybe I’m hypothesizing.
When I reached home I thought I changed. My idea of life changed from not dead to living. I began to perceive every little detail of my life as it was a gift. I still remember her, her heavy and hauling breath. I still felt her in the surroundings but I was afraid to tell anyone. Days passed and I started to recover and I felt quite fresh day by day. One day I decided, I decided to go to the hospital. I reached the hospital went to the inquiry desk kneeled over the desk and said, “Sarah Everdane”. “No records”, was the reply from receptionist. I asked her to look into past month records but her answer was same. How can it be possible? I saw her in the emergency room then in the Oncology clinic for days. I went to the automated enquiry computer typed, “Sarah Everdane”, it furnished the same answer in the text format and then I typed my name and it showed, “discharged after successful heart transplant”. At this I was shocked I remember everything I had undergone but a surgery was out of question. I left the hospital astonished and went straight to my mother and asked her about the surgery. At first she negated it but then she nodded and said, “during your surgery procedure you had a brain stroke due to the blood clots, doctors were able to save you, but you suffered a memory loss of the incident. Also for us your recovery was prime so we didn’t bother to recall you the moment”. “Who was the donor” I questioned her. She went inside and opened the drawer to take out a folder in which there was an undertaking duly signed by some authority on the top of which mentioned the donor name as “Sarah Everdane”.