Borrower

Today is the one year anniversary of my accident. It is also the one year anniversary of the last time I ever walked, laughed, swam, cried, breathed without a ventilator, tasted my food, saw sunlight, or loved.

My name is Ann and I am a mess. I live in a world of no outlets, no physical contact (auto-immune problems), wheelchair bound, tubes for breathing, tubes for eating, more tubes for excreting, and one more tube for blood-monitoring.

Today, I am 19 years old. The government has declared me physically stable. This means I am fit for work.

What kind of work?

I qualify as a Borrower.

I am to reduce the suffering in others, by accepting the suffering of others. In turn, I have the feed stock of the pathos, ethos, and logos of what should be a constant stream of great novels.

I am expected to live vicariously through people I will never meet and transform their sorrow into entertainment for more people I will never meet. In doing so, I will participate in the New World Order. I have been classified as “Productive” so I can begin repaying my medical expenses.

To refuse my only occupation means I am worth only the value of the sum of my parts.

Since I no longer have any kidneys and am desperately clinging to a liver donated by the deceased geriatric alcoholic who drove his car into me a year ago (file under irony), I have little recourse in the way of options. My fate is as preordained as is my isolation. It is fitting that I cannot allow another to borrow sorrows from me. I do believe I am singularly qualified for my position without a suitable replacement should I fail.

And failure is not an option.

On my agenda for this glorious morning, if it really is morning. How would I know? Without a window or any means of communication, I have to imagine everyday still begins with a glorious morning, inspiring all it touches to lofty greatness and dreams of a better life.

Take note of the last sentence I will ever write, not borrowed from another.

Today, I received my cerebral download of the misfortune of Amanda. She is a single mother, never married, slightly past the apex of her best years physically, and only now realizing how life could have been. She has spurned the only man she ever loved by refusing to forgive and forgave the only man, who never desired her as she desired him, with multitudes of transgressions. Amanda now awakens to her reality. She is lonely and will forever be so. Her child refuses to speak with her and has legally distanced himself by changing his name. He has a future of possibilities.

Amanda has only a half empty bottle of scotch.

But, not for long. As soon as her download is complete, Amanda can relearn for she will have forgotten. She can open her eyes to doors previously closed and to those still ajar. Amanda will become Mary or Sue or Linda and will have that second chance, distant from all her previous decisions and thus consequences.

Today, I will become what Amanda should have remained.

The download is nearly at an end.

And so it begins.