From The Mind Of Wag...

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The Window Seat | Remember: Stories about uncovering what was never really lost.

What changes when we stop trying to outrun ourselves? He always chose the aisle. Not because he was afraid of flying or needed the extra room. He chose it because the aisle made leaving easier. After years of traveling for work, he had developed a system. Laptop out before takeoff. Earbuds in. Inbox open the moment the Wi-Fi connected. By the time the wheels touched down, he could have half a day’s work behind him. Airports no longer felt like places. They were transitions. Houston. Atlanta. Chicago. Denver. Gate numbers. Boarding groups. Rental cars. Hotel rooms. He knew which airports had decent coffee, which security lines moved fastest and exactly how late he could arrive at the gate without hearing his name over the speaker. He was good at traveling. Mostly because he had learned how to make it disappear. So, when he booked the early flight home that Thursday morning, he chose the aisle. At least, he thought he had. The gate agent looked at his boarding pass, then at her screen. “...

The Second Cup | Remember: Stories about uncovering what was never really lost.

What does it mean to keep living when living has always included someone else? Every morning, he made two cups of coffee. He had done it for so many years that he barely thought about it anymore. His cup went on one side of the table. Hers went on the other. Even after she died. The first morning, perhaps it made sense. Grief doesn’t immediately learn new routines. The body keeps doing what love taught it to do. Reach for two cups. Pour twice. Set one beside the chair where she had always sat. But then there was another morning. And another. Two cups. Two places. One empty chair. Sometimes he sat there until both cups were cold. Friends worried about him. His children called more often. Everyone seemed to offer some version of the same advice. You’ve got to keep living. He knew they were right. He just didn’t know what that meant. Because for most of his adult life, living had included her. Living was hearing her slippers cross the kitchen floor. It was knowing how much cream she...

The Last Key | Remember: Stories about uncovering what was never really lost.

What keys do we keep carrying long after the doors they opened are gone? For twenty years, the key had opened nothing. And for twenty years, he had carried it anyway. It hung from the same ring as the keys to his house, his truck and the small padlock on the shed. Old brass. Worn smooth around the edges. There had been a time when he reached for it several times a day without thinking. The front entrance. The east hallway. The gymnasium. His office. For thirty-two years, he had been a school principal. And that key had opened nearly every door in the building. He knew the school before it was awake. The sound of the custodian’s cart rolling through an empty hallway. The smell of freshly waxed floors in August. The strange silence after the last bus pulled away. He had handed out diplomas. Broken up fights. Sat with frightened first-year teachers. Called parents with good news and terrible news. For thirty-two years, people had called him Principal Harris. Then one Friday afternoo...

The Call Came. Does That Mean You’re Getting a Transplant? | An Organ Donation Educational Moment

There may be no phone call a person waiting for a transplant wants more than this one: “We may have an organ for you.” After days, weeks, months — or sometimes years — of waiting, imagine hearing those words. This might be it. The waiting is finally be over... Except there’s something many people outside the transplant world don’t realize: The call doesn’t always mean you’re getting the transplant. Sometimes it means there is a potential organ. There are still things that have to happen. The transplant team has to evaluate the available organ. Medical information has to be reviewed. Compatibility and other factors have to be considered. The recipient has to be ready for surgery. And sometimes, somewhere during that process, the answer changes. Not this one. From the Call to the Transplant Think about the emotional distance between: “We may have an organ for you.” and “We’re not going to proceed.” You may have told your family. You may have rushed to the hospital. You may have st...

Who Gets the Heart? | An Organ Donation Educational Moment

Imagine this. A donor heart becomes available. Somewhere, several people desperately need a heart transplant. Each of them has a story. Each has people who love them. Each wants more time. So... Who gets the heart? And maybe the bigger question: Who decides? Before my own transplant, I certainly didn't understand everything happening behind the scenes. I knew there was a waiting list. I knew donated organs had to be matched with recipients. But I didn't fully understand how a particular heart ultimately makes its way to a particular person. And I think that's true for a lot of us. Because from the outside, it's easy to imagine someone somewhere simply making a decision: Give it to this person. That's not how it works. A Doctor Doesn't Simply Pick Someone Organ allocation uses a structured system designed to match donated organs with appropriate transplant candidates. For a heart, several factors can matter. Medical urgency. Blood type and other compatibility con...

The Father Who Supposedly Sacrificed His Son to Save a Train | Wait… Is That Actually True?

A railroad bridge operator brought his eight-year-old son to work. His name was John Griffith. His son’s name was Greg. The year was 1937. John operated a massive drawbridge spanning the Mississippi River. When ships needed to pass, he raised the bridge. When trains approached, he lowered it back into place. That afternoon, John raised the bridge and stepped away to eat lunch with his son. Then he heard it. The whistle of the Memphis Express. Four hundred passengers were racing toward an open bridge. John ran to the control room and reached for the lever. But before lowering the bridge, he looked into the enormous gearbox beneath him. Greg had fallen into the gears. John had only seconds to decide. He could leave the bridge open and allow the train to plunge into the river. Or he could pull the lever, close the bridge and crush his son. John buried his face in his arm and pulled the lever. The bridge descended. The train crossed safely. Through tear-filled eyes, John watched the ...