Every phone call caused a hitch in my throat. He had three weeks. Three weeks of sorrow and mourning. Three weeks of prayer and pleading. A mere three-week limit with my dad, my best friend.
He was number one on two organ donor lists as of January 2013: one at Northwestern and another at Duke. He was awaiting the call for a liver, the call that would save his life. He was weak, and some days it would be impossible for him to leave his bed. He was withered and pale with a yellowish tint of jaundice. This was liver failure.
The year my dad was sick, I was in eighth grade, but I was forced to mature as quickly as possible. With my parents staying near Duke waiting for the call, I lived at home for six months with my brother, Andrew, and my Aunt Sarah. However, on many evenings, I had to take care of my brother and manage the household myself. I also had to remain hopeful for Andrew, but it felt almost impossible. Every day at school, my peers would ask me how my dad was doing, and I had to lie, struggling to fake a smile as I said that he was doing better every day. Little did they know that every day was a battle, as he fought in a hospital bed, hooked up to countless machines, holding on to the possibility that he would soon be wheeled into surgery. Through it all, he would still attempt to smile and laugh in what was the hardest time of his life. Now, because of my dad, I strive to face every problem and every obstacle head-on, smiling and cracking jokes here and there. That is who my dad is: a fighter, a survivor, and a jokester.
Finally, on Easter morning, we got a call—the call we had been wishing and praying for. However, the liver was ready at Northwestern, and it would be difficult to catch a flight back to Illinois in time before they gave it to the next recipient. So we declined. It was a risky decision. At this point, I could not take the waiting and the wishing and the praying, and I almost lost all hope. I had times when I would question my faith and ask God why he put my family through this hell. But I learned soon afterward that without this situation, my faith in God would have never been this strong.
This past year, my mom and I were at my dance studio chatting with another mom. Her husband had a liver transplant as well. My mom asked when his surgery was and she said Easter 2013. We paused in our tracks. He had received the liver we had first declined. We asked if his surgery was a success, and her answer was a dreadful no. I cannot help but wonder how different our lives would have been if we returned to Chicago and accepted the liver on that Easter morning. It was truly an act of fate, an act of God.
A month later, I received a phone call from my mom. I could hear her smile as she told me that my dad was going into surgery that morning. He made it. He had a liver. Later, I got another call, and this time, it was from my dad. I answered, confused, since he would just be getting out of surgery at this time, drowsy with medication. “Hey kiddo,” he said, cooly and relaxed, like he hadn’t just undergone a draining surgery. He continued to joke about his sudden boredom since he had awakened earlier than the doctors expected. I heard his laugh, loopy with anesthesia. Finally, as if he had read my mind, he confidently answered my unsaid question: “Everything is going to be okay.”