I got a type-written letter last week from Miss Perfect Match herself, my donor! If you remember, we can’t meet each other until at least a year out from transplant, but we can write heartfelt generic letters back and forth, plump full of non-identifying information. All I know is that she’s a 19 year-old from somewhere in the U.S. I usually work from the Who-What-When-Where-Why, so this foundation-less conversation is quite different for me.
But we do have quite the foundation. She’s my blood, after all.
After I reread her letter for the tenth time, I started Googling recent concert locations for Taylor Swift because she said she had recently been. I thought too hard about her cat’s name, thinking it may have a connection to a local mascot. I felt like my dad trying to track down the flight my bone marrow had arrived on back in May. All an enthralled effort to figure out where she’s from, who she is. But alas, they say “non-identifying” for a reason, and no amount of regression to my Harriet the Spy days will uncover her – until May, at least.
I won’t read you the entire letter – that would be like me reading out loud letters (I wish) I used to find hidden in my locker from my secret admirer. But I can assure you that we are now officially pen pals. She made me a friendship bracelet to seal it.
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