I was filling out my driver’s license renewal form at the DMV several weeks ago when I came to the question about whether or not I wanted to be an organ donor. I had been rushing through the form, not wanting my number to be called before I had finished filling it out, lest I be wasting any civil servant’s time.
Organ donor? I had never thought about this before. On one hand, it seemed like the obvious thing to do. If I died, I should be more than happy to give my organs away; I wouldn’t need them anymore… right? Thinking about it this way, I was somewhat surprised that I hadn’t already made this designation in past paperwork, that I had made it to my 36th year without extending such permission.
Or had I already checked the box last time I renewed my license, and now they were asking me again? Can you change your mind once you agree to donate?
My pen hovered over the question. Agreeing to give away my organs, all of them in one swoop, seemed so… drastic. Would I regret this? Was I being too generous? Was this a normal thing to do? Every emotional reservation I could articulate led immediately to a factual rebuttal: I would not exist anymore to experience fear, pain, sorrow, regret, or anything else that I could imagine I would feel at the loss of my organs.
Over the loudspeaker, the automated announcer kept calling numbers, rapid-fire style. Any minute it would be my turn. I stopped thinking my organs and checked the box. Then, quickly, I finished the rest of the form. I folded the paperwork up in my lap, ready to head up to one of the windows at a moment’s notice.
An hour passed before my number was called. I had rushed for no reason. Still, the decision to donate seemed right.
Finally, I was called. “You want to donate your organs?” the clerk said after I barely passed the vision test. She had waited patiently as I squinted and guessed at the letters posted on the sign behind her.
“Sure,” I said, more confidently than I felt. The woman nodded, and scribbled something down.
“If I die, right?”
“Yep,” she said, chuckling a little. I wondered if she got that question a lot. She printed out my interim license and took my credit card payment. “Have a nice day.”
I didn’t think about it again until yesterday, when I received a letter in the mail from the state, thanking me for agreeing to be an organ donor. “On behalf of almost 10,000 New Yorkers waiting for a lifesaving transplant, please accept our sincere thanks for making the decision to give the gift of life…” The letter encouraged me to share my decision with my family. But rather than think about telling other people, I imagined my own death playing out — a car crash, an encounter with a mountain lion — and then a coda to the story in which local authorities and medical personnel carefully pried me open, took what they needed, and transported it to hospitals, clinics or research labs. Painless, efficient, bureaucratic. At first it was shocking to think about, but then quickly I felt a kind of calm pass over me, which I think had to do with forcing myself to envision the world’s continuation after I was gone. I felt small and a little brave, and just significant enough to be satisfied with who I was.
I folded up the letter and put it in the recycling.