For Grace

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” she says.

“I know that, baby.” She doesn’t believe me. That is the frown of a daughter who has gone 15 rounds with her stubborn old man many times before. This time, though, is different. For some reason, I do not feel motivated to convince her of the folly of her assumptions.

“You think this is about me doing something I couldn’t do for your mom, and I don’t blame you. But it’s not. It’s just the right thing to do.”

As I motion to the next room, the IV tugs at my wrist. I wince a little but try to smile away the discomfort. She lightly places her hand on top of mine.

“It was just an accident. It wasn’t your fault. You don’t…”

Her squeeze on my hand strengthens a little bit more with every word.

“It’s just a kidney. I have two, and someone I know needs one. It’s polite to share.”

She laughs at the line. How many times did I tell her it’s polite to share as I was reaching into her sleeve of Oreos or can of Pringles without her permission?

I know the sight of a parent lying in a creepy, off-white bed, how it fills you with more selfishness than you normally allow. When it’s a stroke or cancer, you are resigned to the fact that your father cannot simply pull out his wires and walk away from the situation, but when it’s purely voluntary, how else can I expect her to feel?

I know how this looks, me giving something so important to a complete stranger lying in the next room who I came to know only because of a broken headlight and a torn fender for which I am responsible. To my daughter, it just looks like guilt making me stupid. Right now, I am more comfortable with her disapproval motivated by unconditional love than I am of the effort to explain to her the truth.

The doctor said I was a match. I just said yes, I’ll do it. I wasn't thinking about me or my daughter or the memory of her mom. I didn’t even think about it. It just came out. Between God and me, if I could take it back, I would.

But you don’t do that. You follow through on a promise, and you act like you knew what you were doing all along. Otherwise, the whole damn system breaks down, and you leave your children a world in which they can never believe in even the kindness much less the generosity of strangers.

“So, what’s your damsel in distress’s name?” my daughter asks.

“Grace,” I say.

There’s that frown again.