24th Time’s The Charm: My Journey to Organ Transplant Success

Minutes before surgery: the emotional goodbye outside OT

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The five minutes I spent scrolling through my phone before bed felt like the best five hours of my day. I didn’t have a sleep schedule or a fixed wake-up time. Nights melted into mornings, and mornings stretched into afternoons as I wandered through a cycle of sleeplessness. It was one of those nights — 6 a.m., and I still hadn’t slept. Insomnia had claimed me once again.

Just as my eyelids grew heavy, the phone rang, cutting through the silence. It was the hospital. Another donor alert. They needed me there in two hours.

This wasn’t new. My parents and I moved through the familiar routine for the 24th time: brush, eat, pack. I assumed we’d be back before lunch as we always were, order some takeout, and sleep the rest of the day away. But something inside me whispered otherwise. I texted my best friend, making a bold promise: “I won’t come home without the surgery today.”

At the hospital, I scrolled through memes about the election results while sitting in the waiting area. Laughter was my escape, a bubble of normalcy in the midst of uncertainty. My parents were called into a counselling session while I was instructed to prepare. It was the third time I was going through this drill.

Image by Author waiting outside a pre-surgery counseling

It was chaos. My dad was still in counselling. My mom juggled family calls, explaining the situation for the umpteenth time. Meanwhile, I stood on the battlefield, gearing up for what felt like a final push. The helper had to empty gallons of murky water from the tap before clean water came out and I could be given a bath. Before I even finished, they were out.

The surgeons’ PA and the staff waited to whisk me away. It was all happening too quickly. Dressed in fresh hospital robes and breathing heavily, I signed my life away to them. My mother clicked a few pictures and off I went.

Image by Author: Moments before surgery

Image by Author

We were given two minutes outside the OT. Two minutes to say our “see you again” and reassure each other. It was such a positive day, neither I nor my parents were scared or nervous.

Inside the OT, there was a flurry of movement. Five, maybe seven people surrounded me, each with a role to play in this life-changing performance. One surgeon leaned down and asked how I was doing. Before I could answer, he smiled and said, “Congratulations.”

Another doctor explained the process. “Two injections, and then we’ll put you to sleep,” he said calmly, as though narrating a bedtime story.

The first injection stung sharply, followed by the second. My hands ached, but the pain began to fade as I focused on the bright surgical lights above. My thoughts spiraled toward my love, the God I prayed to, and the life I hoped was waiting on the other side of this.

As my consciousness ebbed away, I surrendered to the unknown. The lights blurred, and I drifted into dreamland.

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