“You were an hour away from death.”

Her words hung in the air as if suspended on a clothesline, fluttering in the breeze of my mind.

My surgeon was irritated, insistent and weary, no doubt from the unexpected call in the wee hours of the night followed by hours of bailing grapefruit-sized blood clots from my abdomen.

“Four blood transfusions in ninety minutes. Four. You are lucky to be alive.” The doctor gripped the yellowing plastic of my well-worn hospital bed and shook it a bit in her frustration.

I closed my eyes, taking a shaky, tentative breath. I no longer felt lightheaded. I could fully inflate my lungs without vomiting. The internal gash was patched. New blood swirling in my veins like second helpings of soup, contained in a new, sound bowl. 

I was alive.

Tears pricked behind my eyelids as, finally, a coherent thought formed.

Thank you.

To the strangers who unknowingly saved my life tonight, thank you. Your blood flowed into my body as mine drained out, bringing me back to life.

What do they look like, my saviors? It feels completely alien to be alive because of people I have never met. Will never meet. As though I was now more a stranger than myself.

I wonder who they are. I wonder if somehow life has rewarded them for giving of themselves so freely. Oh, please, please let the universe bless them for allowing me to return to my child, who is at home, sleeping peacefully. My child . . . whose mother didn’t think to give a kiss goodbye in case she wasn’t coming back.

Thank you, life-saving strangers. I will not allow your gift to be squandered.  

Deep breath now.