I grew up thinking organ donation was something to avoid. In my family, it wasn’t something people talked about openly. And when they did, it was usually with criticism. I had also heard this echoed by fellow members of the Hispanic community. So I never questioned it.
Then I lost Steven.
Steven and I met in middle school. A few years after graduation we reconnected through social media. I knew then he was my person in every sense of the word. In 2013, he went to renew his ID, and when he came home, he was ecstatic to tell me he had signed up to be an organ donor. “I really want to help people,” he told me. I called him crazy.
“You know that means doctors will pull the plug on you to use your organs,” I told him. I genuinely believed that. But Steven remained unwavering, proud of his donor status.
Four years later, on Oct. 9, 2017, he rushed out the door for work, forgetting to take his blood pressure medication. Before he left, he kissed his grandmother goodbye, something he usually never did.
