I knew I took Latin for a reason.
Anything I felt before now I could find a way to articulate. I have exceeded this now.
I feel as though my life is no longer my own. I made a pact with the Devil without reading the fine print. I had already assumed all the obligation I thought I needed to. I had already assumed all the obligation I could carry. I have been measured, and found wanting.
There is a difference between respecting the memory of a nameless child and honoring the sacrifice of the walking wounded. I may have had the strength for the former; I don't know where I'm going to find the strength for the latter.
Early on, even before I got the transplant, I harbored fantasies of eventually meeting the donor family. We'd meet, they'd see how serious and articulate and grateful I was, and they'd feel as though they'd made the right decision. There would be closure, and there would be validation.
I was naive.