Finding My Donor Family III

I have to admit that since I posted my original note, that I have stalled in my quest.  This has been largely due to commitments at university and if I am honest with myself, I suspect that nothing more will now happen until August, when I am no longer bound by timetables, or deadlines.  And then I have days like today, where the enormity of the situation overtakes everything else in my head and I have to just stop what I am doing and shed a few tears.

I cry because he missed out and because his entire family missed out in watching him do, learn, explore, grow, change, develop.  I often wonder about the lad who saved my life.  He'd be 36 now, if the facts that I have are correct.  Would he have married?  What would he have done?  Was he a good kid? Was he a little monkey?  What happened to his best friends at school?  I know mine rallied  when my life support was nearly switched off - in fact their actions saved my life; I came round, out of a coma when mum repeatedly played the tape of them singing, laughing and talking which they'd sent to the hospital.

I cry because I can never make it right for that boy.  If a kid hurt themselves in the playground, I used to give them a hug and just be there for them; I can't do that for him.  I know absolutely it was not my fault that he died, but there is such a thing as survivors guilt.  I am alive, because he is not.  I just want to scoop him up, give him a big cuddle and tell him it will be alright.

I cry because next year I turn 40.  How on earth did I get to 40?  HOW?  It beggars belief that I am probably going to celebrate this milestone.  I am stunned.  Most people seem to run away from admitting they are THAT old - I'm running towards it, with my arms open wide, ready to embrace the next decade.  The fading looks, the increased wrinkles are minor details that really don't matter.  

I  AM GOING TO MAKE IT TO FORTY! 

I cry because I wonder if I have done enough.  Has my life been justification enough for that hellishly expensive operation and that lad's passing?  Have enough of my days counted?  Have I tried to do the right thing?  Have I been honest enough? Kind enough? Thoughtful enough?  Achieved enough?  Truthful enough? If I ever meet my donor mum, will I meet her expectations?  I have two lives for which to account; have my actions been the right ones?  Should I be a better person?

I cry because of the chances I have had, that would have been denied me, had I died back in 1988.  It so nearly wasn't my turn, but a twist of fate, or a stroke of luck, a guardian angel, or the devil watching over me - however you choose to phrase it - has granted me some of the most amazing experiences a person could wish to have.  I have never managed to work out whether I was the luckiest bugger alive, or if I have had the worst hand of cards dealt.  I tend towards the former, but occasionally the latter wins over.  Either way, I know I won the lottery in 1988 and gained a prize worth more than the multimillions you can win on the Euros.