Books

In 1978, at age ten, my life changed forever. I was on the phone with my dad when I heard a deafening boom, like someone had set off a firecracker right where he stood. My aunt ran into the room with a piercing scream. Your father is dead. And then, silence. Nobody said another word. At ten years old, the word death didn't make sense to me. Strangers filled the house, their faces shadowed with sorrow, while my aunts and uncles cried in ways I couldn't understand. Desperate to escape the dread and the tears, my siblings and I went outside to play. It gave us a break from a grief we were too young to hold.

Man, I still remember the day everything changed. It was late June 1980, right after school let out, and the whole South Side was buzzing like somebody had kicked a hornet's nest. When we pushed through the crowd, I saw it. The Chicago White Sox had announced a citywide teen baseball tournament. Ages thirteen to nineteen. Eight weeks. Winner plays at Comiskey Park. I read it twice. Then three times. My heart was doing somersaults in my chest. This wasn't some rinky dink sandlot thing. This was legit.

There are things in this world that exist beyond explanation. Beyond reason. Beyond the boundaries of what we tell ourselves is possible. I'm not talking about miracles or magic or the supernatural things people claim to see when they're desperate for meaning. I'm talking about something quieter. Something that doesn't announce itself with thunder or visions or burning bushes. Something that simply waits. I saw it for the first time on an ordinary night. A night so unremarkable I almost didn't notice the moment that would split my life in two.

The alarm goes off at 4:00 AM, but you've been awake for an hour already. Your body knows the schedule better than any clock. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. The tyranny of threes. You reach for your phone in the darkness, not because you're hopeful, but because checking for missed calls has become a compulsion. Maybe the transplant center called. Maybe there's a kidney. Maybe today someone can save you. But no one can. O negative. The universal donor. The rarest receiver. The blood type that made you a hero when you gave, and now makes you impossible to save.

You're not special. Neither am I. That's not an insult. It's a liberation. For years, I thought there was something wrong with me. When family members didn't call, I assumed I'd done something to offend them. When friends only reached out when they needed something, I told myself I just wasn't interesting enough to deserve their time otherwise. But here's what being ordinary actually means. You're human. You have good days and bad days. You try your best, but your best isn't perfect. And here's the thing I wish I'd understood sooner. Everyone else is ordinary too.

I used to think I knew how a story was supposed to go. You know the part where things get hard, then the part where you figure it out, then the part where everything's good. I lived like that was a contract. Like if I held up my end, life would hold up its. I'm laughing right now because I know how that sounds. Then, quietly, he says, she's gone. Has been for four years. And I'm going to tell you everything. From the beginning. Because the only way I know how to make sense of a thing is to go back to where it started.