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Chapter One
From: DonorConnect Communications

To: Morgan Thorne

Date: May 3, 2025

You have received the following message from your loved one’s organ recipient. As a reminder, DonorConnect encourages both organ recipients and donor families to refrain from sharing identifying information (including name, address, and personal email) until a time when both parties have consented to giving and accepting those details.

Hi.

I’ve decided there’s no way to begin this message that isn’t either (1) creepy or (2) awkward, so I’m just going to dive right into the Creepy/Awkward Pool and hope I don’t drown.

One year ago today, your wife saved my life. And it breaks my heart that, in order for me to live, she first had to die.

Actually, I shouldn’t say that. I know it’s just an expression—breaks my heart—but it feels a little reckless for me to use it. Because, this time, I plan to be careful with my heart. With your wife’s, I mean. I plan on keeping it whole.

I don’t remember a lot about the day of the transplant. For that whole week, I’d been in and out of consciousness. But I remember the light in the operating room, just before they put me under, so sharp and bright it felt like a slap of sunlight. I remember realizing, then, that it had been months since I’d felt the actual sun on my face, because even before the hospital, before my symptoms, I’d been in such a dark place. From November 16 to that day, May 3, I’d barely stepped outside.

Sorry if that’s too bleak or too much. I just want you to know your wife gave me even more than her heart. She gave me light again. Gave me the reminder that, despite all the darkness I’d indulged, there was still, somehow, sun.

But while I’m potentially oversharing: I wonder sometimes what else she’s given me. In the past year, I’ve read a lot about heart transplants, and there’s one article I keep coming back to. A woman in Canada claims she feels love differently with her new heart. The love is colder, she says. More clinical. To be honest, I’m not sure what that means. How can love be cold? To me, love is so blazing it hurts. But the article did make me wonder if there’s residue inside my new heart of all the love your wife once felt.

I say that in the hopes it’ll be some comfort—the love she had for you didn’t necessarily die with her.

We’re not supposed to use names right now, but I thought you might like to know a little about the person your wife saved: I’m a thirty-year-old woman living in a Boston suburb. I work as the manager of my parents’ bridal salon. I don’t have a partner, pet, or children, but one of the best parts of my day is when I walk my parents’ dog. I always say I’m doing it to help my dad, who’s recovering from a hip replacement (this has been my family’s Year of Upgraded Body Parts), but really, I do it for me. I do it to spend time with that soft, sweet Australian shepherd whose love is unconditional, who’s never known anything of heartbreak (except, of course, when I deny him a fifth treat in as many minutes—then he’s the most deprived dog who’s ever lived; cue that Sarah McLachlan song). I do it for the exercise, too, so I can put my hand on my chest and feel my new heart beating. So I can remember that each of those beats is another chance to live the life that, for six excruciating months before my transplant, I was sure I’d never have.

And while I can’t thank your wife for everything she’s given me, I’ve decided to start using DonorConnect so I can at least thank you—the person with whom she trusted her heart. The person who kept it safe.

From: DonorConnect Communications

To: Rosie Lachlan

Date: May 5, 2025

You have received the following message from your donor’s loved one. As a reminder, DonorConnect encourages both organ recipients and donor families to refrain from sharing identifying information (including name, address, and personal email) until a time when both parties have consented to giving and accepting those details.

Well, hello there.

First of all: don’t worry; I medaled in the Awkward Olympics. Second: before you even reached out to me, I was already thinking of you. (How’s that for awkward?)

As I’m sure you can imagine, the anniversary of my wife’s death is a difficult day. But as I neared it, the date looming in front of me like a noose, I decided I’d spend it thinking of all the people—those unknown, unnamed people—who received organs from her, who carry pieces of her into the future, who keep her, in some small way, alive.

Mostly, though, I thought about you. I don’t imagine my wife’s essential qualities were stored in her kidneys or pancreas. It’s the heart we always talk about. And yes, it’s just an organ, as indifferent to love as a lung or liver; it’s only a metaphor—that our emotions, our very selves, are contained in our core—but if any bit of my wife truly survived, I like to believe that whatever remains of her can be found in you.

Normally, that’s not something I’d actually say to someone—most would find it weird or creepy (see? I’m right there with you, splashing around in the Creepy/Awkward Pool)—but I appreciate that you seem to see it the same way. And I’m grateful you reached out to me. Grateful for these small details you’ve told me about yourself. In return, here are some details about me: I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man who, like you, lives in a Boston suburb. I’m a writer (if you can’t tell from that paragraph above where I explained in obnoxious poetics what a heart is and isn’t. But hey, are you a writer, too, by any chance? I love “slap of sunlight.” I might just have to steal that.). Finally, I have an orange tabby named Sickle. Short for Creamsicle. Creams might have been a better nickname (my wife fought for that, believing that pluralizing any noun makes it an adorable pet name—go ahead and try it: Marbles. Sweaters. Even, somehow, Bandages)—but his claws have always been unnaturally sharp, even for a cat. Hence: Sickle.

What’s your parents’ dog’s name? And—a better question: Will you be petitioning for them to change it to something that’s a plural noun, now that you know the Foolproof Trick to Naming Pets?

Speaking of your parents, tell me more about managing their bridal salon. I’m not close with my family, so the idea of actually working with them is enough to give me hives. Hopefully, in your case, it’s a rashless experience. Also, have you ever been attacked by a bridezilla?

On a more serious note, I’m sorry to hear you weren’t having the best time before you got sick. This dark place you say you were in—do you want to tell me about it?