I never thought I’d do it. It’s been seventeen years, after all. And even if I did do it, I never believed it would be this hard.
Mum and I had talked for years about going into Births, Deaths and Marriages to see if we could find her, but today on my own, I went into a quiet room – so quiet the air had a tenderness about it – and scrolled slowly through a reel of microfilm until I found her.
Today I found my donor.
I have to say it again because it doesn’t feel real – I found my donor.
I had always known the rudimentary details about her, but never her name or date of birth; her exact age or the the colour of her hair.
And now I know because today I ‘met’ her just for a little while. I even got to see a photograph and wow, is she exquisite. A brunette, with shades of red. I knew my donor was a brunette. Don’t ask me how – I just knew. She was married and we share the same initials when she still had her maiden name. She was twenty-two and we were born in the same year. Her name is unusual; I never would have guessed it. She was married. At twenty-two. And at twenty-two, she died.
Her funeral notice reads ‘tragically taken’. Because she was. She was taken from her family in the most tragic of circumstances in her apogee; her absolute prime.
But then she gave. Gave life to me and from what I understand, several other people.
I knew yesterday I was going to the library. Last night was, in spite or because of, the most restful sleep I’ve had in months.
This post is short because I’m crying rivers and trying to process something that is profound and so much bigger than me. The only trouble is that I’ve opened a door I’m not ready to close, but this shall do for today.
All I know is that she lives through me, and I through the wonder of her. Every breath honours you, C. I just hope that I have been enough, done enough, am enough.