The Last Human

There’s no telling if I wake up from this. Everyone knows it, but no one will say it.

“Ten minutes,” the nurse says, poking her head in.

That’s how I know. They’re giving me a warning, like they want me to put my personal effects in order before I go under, just in case. I’m sixteen: I don’t have personal effects. I have fifty years of unlived life lying in front of me. Sometimes I like to imagine what my kids would look like. That’s what keeps me going. Maybe, just maybe, if I can keep my heart pumping, I can keep those beautiful brats alive.

Mom is stroking my head, which is only making things worse. Her hands are shaking, and her brittle voice keeps saying, “It’ll be okay,” like she knows anything about liver transplants. I know how bad it is. The doctor gave us the odds. Plus, any time they cut a sizeable chunk out of you, there’s a chance you won’t recover.

The disease that put me here has some long name, something important sounding. My mom says it all the time and then tells everyone that I’m a trooper. I hate that. One, troopers are soldiers, and soldiers die. Two, just hearing the name makes it sound like I’ve got no chance. Why couldn’t they call it the “Lazy Platelet Disease”? That doesn’t sound so bad.

Dad pretends he’s okay with his arms crossed and his eyebrows all knitted together, but he’s not fooling anyone itching his cheeks that often. It’s not like he developed eczema overnight. Those are tears he’s wiping away.

The nurse comes back in. She and Mom start talking about the weather, like I’m not lying here, hooked up to enough equipment to power a submarine. She’s here to usher me into the OR. I keep thinking to myself that this might be the last human I ever see. I wonder if this is what gladiators felt staring down their enemies.

“If you can’t fight for your life, maybe you don’t deserve to live,” I mumble through the mask.

“What’s that, dear?” the nurse asks.

Mom hates when I talk about death. She can’t handle it. It makes me wonder what’s worse, dying, or watching someone you love die. It’s even harder because we don’t have compatible livers. She would do anything to keep me going. It must be killing her, standing there so helpless.

Now I get it. “Crazy weather, right?” I wheeze, loud enough for them to hear it. It’s not about the weather. It’s about feeling normal; ignorance is bliss. The nurse knows that. That’s why she started such a frivolous conversation. I decide to take up her lead and pretend like there’s nothing wrong.

The nurse gets my IVs attached to my bed-frame, my chariot into battle. She compliments my mother on her dress as she wheels me out.

“It’ll be okay,” she says when the door closes. It’s not the way my mother says it, hoping I’ll make it through. She knows the odds. She means that there are fates worse than death, like being alone. I will always have my parents.

In the prep room, they wash me down. She holds my hands while they put in a new line for my anesthesia. She doesn’t say anything. She just smiles.

I’m glad she’s my last human.

I can feel the drugs creeping through my system. She doesn’t let go, even though I’m going limp. I squeeze her hand. I’ve been fine up until now. The drugs make it real. These might be my last few rays of light.

“Tell my mom I—I—,” but I can’t finish between the tears and the numbness.

She squeezes my hand back. “She knows.”

Those might be the last words I ever hear. Her smile might be the last thing I ever see. I imagine coming through a tunnel into the Coliseum with the crowd cheering my name. I will fight.