I had a terrible motorcycle crash last year; in a coma for twelve weeks. I’m a surgical resident and I ended up in my own hospital, tended to by my own professor and mentor. I’m sure I got special care. He just wouldn’t give up on me. He took me back to the operating room six times in the first few weeks, to stop bleeding, they say. I woke up twelve weeks later missing my left eye, my right hand, my left lower leg and parts of my liver and left lung, as well as a kidney. I was told they had to remove those organs because of continued bleeding. Nonetheless, I’m still here and relatively functional. They said I was nearly brain dead and my recovery after three months of coma was astonishing. It certainly surprised the professor, I’m told. He just couldn’t believe it, they say.

Coming out of a coma is like coming up from a deep ocean scuba dive. It’s all dark and then you can see some light above you. You start ascending and the light gets brighter and you begin to hear voices. One can’t make out what they’re saying, at first, but things get clearer and then one day you break through the film above you and burst into the sunlit world again. At least that’s how it was for me. It seems my mind and mental abilities were not seriously impaired, for I recovered my memory of events before the accident with no trouble. Interestingly, my sense of smell, hearing and taste were not diminished and my recall of distant occurrences was not impaired.

My pot holed, rutted, twisting road to recovery was accomplished with the constant harassment of the skillful physical terrorists; I call them terrorists. In reality the physical therapists probably saved my life after all those operations. Like the professor, they never gave up on me. I must admit, I developed a real dislike for a couple of them during the long rehabilitation penance year. I paid my dues though, and I can now walk, think, see, and use my hook with some dexterity. I’m grateful to them for their persistence and perseverance. Together with the professor, the hospital team and the rehab unit physical therapists I’m here today. They saved my life. I’m grateful.

But wait. There’s more to the story. Last week I was sitting in the back booth of the pub across from the hospital, nursing a beer. I’m still not too social after the trauma and the long recovery period.

A pair of surgical residents slid in the booth next to mine without noticing me. They were buzzing with excitement about the day’s occurrences.

“He’s been indicted and charged with malfeasance, ethics violations and malpractice.”

“You’re kidding. The professor? The head of the transplant unit?”

“No I’m not kidding. I hear he has it coming. You should hear what he did.”

“What?”

“It seems he had a comatose patient that he thought was going to be pronounced brain dead. He removed a whole bunch of organs, for transplant, from the patient before he was certified dead. And to everyone’s surprise the patient woke up weeks later and recovered, weeks later.”

“I can’t believe it. He did all that?”

“He did. But you haven’t heard the worst yet. The donor was one of us.”

“What do you mean one of us?”

“It was a surgery resident on the professor’s own transplant service. You remember him. The guy that had that horrific motorcycle accident last year.. The prof. took six different organs and transplanted them into six different recipients. That’s how he made his name in the field of transplantation. Six transplants to six donors. All unrelated. And they all are still functioning. It got him a Nobel Prize.”

“What a story. It’s almost unbelievable, isn’t it.”

Sitting in the next booth, I was stunned. No. I was astounded. He used me as the donor for this surgical tour d’ force. In addition, the professor used my organs to make a name for himself. He betrayed me and the whole cadre’ of transplant physicians. What a bastard. I was furious and I wanted payback. I left the pub in a rage, hurriedly gimping along with my cane on my prosthetic leg.

The walk home is long and I’m a bit slow so it gave me time to mull over what I’d heard and what I might do about it. I began to think about the results of the professor’s actions. A woman with a new kidney is free from the tyranny of the hemodialysis machine. A yellow jaundiced child is now enjoying a normal life with a normally functioning liver. A blind girl can now see again. A cripple is walking again and a boy has forsaken his iron hook for a functional right hand. A child, gasping for breath because of lung disease, is now breathing normally. God only knows they must be the most grateful group of patients you’ll ever see. And me? What about me? I can walk and I can use my hook. I can see and my liver and lung functions are adequate. I only need my one kidney. I’m getting along Okay, I guess. I’m grateful to the wonderful care I got at the University hospital and for the wonderful group of therapists in the rehabilitation unit. I’m grateful to be alive. And let’s face it. I’m alive because the professor took care of me. Sure he had an ulterior motive but I’m still here, aren’t I.

They’re going to ask me to testify at the hearing. I don’t think so..

Thankful? Appreciative? Indebted? Yes, all of the above and most of all I’m grateful.