Transplanted

Chapter One

Death had been the primary motivator behind Harold's actions throughout the course of his life. It was constantly on his mind, and featured in his dreams and deepest fantasies. He therefore felt confident in his ability to enter heaven, seeing as he had dedicated the 73 years given to him to providing for the needs of others. His undying passion came from studying the many religions which taught that if you were a good person during life you would find yourself in a better place when you died. Which religion was truly correct he considered to be of little importance.

He had often imagined how freeing it would be on that day when his life's work had been completed and he had only his reward ahead of him, fantasizing about that moment when he would float upwards into the sky and beyond the stars. Then, as he perceived his body weakening, he knew that hour was drawing near. He had been taken into the hospital by his family several weeks prior when a stroke had caused him to dip in and out of consciousness.

The final few days ran together, as if there was no night between them. Visitors came to see him, but he hardly noticed them. Noises became smaller and more distant, and his gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon a spot on the ceiling, where he knew that at any moment he would see the heavens opening up to welcome him.

Finally, he could feel his soul ever so slowly lifting away from his mortal body until it seemed to be held in place by only a few threads that were becoming thinner by the second. But he felt no anxiety or dread, taking comfort instead in remembering what a good person he had always been. Knowing where he was going replaced any fear he might have about dying with excitement for what would come next.

At last the moment came with a great sigh, and he breathed in deep and relished it. He felt his soul moving skyward, and the threads that had bound him stretched thin and were ready to break. He had heard that people often heard a chorus of angels as they departed. As he strained he could almost detect it, but it sounded so far away. As I travel upwards I'll hear it more clearly, he thought.

Harold was delirious with joy. He was detaching from his earthly form bit by bit, and never had he felt so light, so free. Yet parts of him began to feel stretched and strained. He saw the nurses running in to check his monitors and he could hear their rushed voices as they examined him. He struggled to understand how to move, now that his soul was lingering in the air above his body, and managed to turn to look back at himself. His corpse was surrounded by medical staff in blue uniforms. An alarm came from a monitor as his soul made its final departure from his brain, leaving it inactive.

"Someone notify his closest relative," a somber voice said.

"Right away."

"Is he an organ donor?"

The nurse with his chart answered, "Yes."

"We've got to harvest the organs right away."

Harold's soul was pulled along by the threads as several nurses wheeled his bed quickly through the hall and into a silver operating room where people were already waiting with masks and gloves. The doors behind them swung shut and with the hospital bed centered in the room, the surgeon said, "Scalpel."

Harold watched in horror as a nurse handed the doctor an instrument and pressed it firmly into the skin on his chest. She pulled the scalpel in a straight line down towards his abdomen, and blood seeped through the incision.

"Bring the containers over. This guy was in great health. We should be able to transplant quite a few."

The doctor reached her gloved hands through the long, bleeding incision and pulled it open, revealing his insides.

Harold tried to tear his eyes away. He was supposed to be gone, floating upwards through the clouds, standing at the pearly gates. Why was he still here? He tried to convince himself that this was probably all normal, that no one truly knows what happens between death and the gates, but panic was setting in. That's a human condition, though, and I'm not supposed to be connected to my physical body anymore. Harold knew that emotions like sadness and sickness were not supposed to exist in heaven, so why was he still feeling something other than complete joy?