I sat in the parked car, keys in my pocket and stared blankly across Lamar Blvd. as other peoples’ lives flashed before my eyes. I was stuck in a voluntary daze as my focus drifted to the lump that was forming in my throat and the slow swelling in my eyes. I remembered my conversation with Rosie less than five minutes ago. I was looking up at her from my chair. Most of what she said went over my head. I was supposed to be periodically squeezing the pharmaco swag foam platelet so my red red kroovy would continue to fill the viles.
“Right now you’re a six out of six”, she said.
“What does that mean, six out of six?”
“Those are your antigens. We’re hoping for ten out of ten.”
I still don’t know what it means or what exactly it is that they’re looking for, other than a “twin”. They won’t know that for another four to six weeks.
She said I have a 1/200 chance of being a match. She said that was good. One out of two hundred doesn’t seem like good odds to me. If I could alter my DNA, I would, just so I could make those odds better.
“What are the next steps?” I asked.
“We’ll send these off to be tested. These three will be tested for infectious disease, the others for matching.”
“If I call you, you’re it.”
“If you’re not, I’ll send you a letter.”
It was at some point in the conversation where she mentioned “his last chance”. And it was at that point where most everything else just didn’t really matter.
She gave me her card, we shook hands and as I hobbled toward the door on my crutches, she told me that she hopes she’ll be calling me soon. I concurred.
I sat there in the parking lot and thought about a 43-year-old man that I don’t even know. I’m not a man for prayer, but I sat there and hoped. If my hoping is considered praying, then I prayed. I got lost in thinking about who this man might be. I thought about his family and those who depend upon and love him. And I thought about all of the things that I had taken for granted just this morning.
A lot of things were put into perspective for me today.