When my younger sister Clara needed a kidney transplant, I gave her mine.
I did not hesitate. I did not make a spreadsheet. I did not ask for time.
When they told us I was a match, I said yes before they finished the sentence.
Clara stared at me from her hospital bed and said, “You’d really do that?”
I remember looking at him and thinking, I picked the right man.
“Of course I would,” I said.
She started crying. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You can say thank you and then stop being dramatic for five minutes.”
She laughed and cried at the same time. “Thank you.”
My husband Evan squeezed my shoulder and said, “You are saving her life.”
I remember looking at him and thinking, I picked the right man.
The surgery went well.
That thought makes me sick now.
Clara and I were never the closest sisters in the world. We loved each other, but from a little distance. She was impulsive. I was careful. She liked being the center of attention. I liked order. We fought plenty growing up. Still, she was my sister. When things were bad, that was what mattered.
Evan and I had been married for nine years. We had a daughter. We had a mortgage, shared calendars, grocery lists, and all the small habits that become a marriage. It was not exciting every second, but it was real. Or I thought it was.
