Organ Donor, Organ Harvest

In medical school, I had the opportunity to observe a “Harvest.” I had observed many surgical operations, but never this procedure. The young man had been in a motorcycle accident, and the tests showed that he was brain-dead. He was an organ donor, his family consented, and now an organ harvest was scheduled. I walked into the halls of the operating rooms wearing my mask and scrubs. The temperature here is always cold, and the scent of hospital sterility hung in the air. The head nurse put me in a corner to stand on a high stool that was well out of the way.

“Just stay here,” she said, “things happen fast. Don’t get in the way.”

The body came in, hooked to life support. The body was a young white male, supple skin and lean muscles. The face was hidden behind machines. I could hear the familiar sounds of the ventilator breathing for someone who could not breathe on his own, the comforting regular beeping of the heart monitor telling us his heart was alive, and the sound of intravenous pumps methodically moving fluids into his veins.

And then, it happened.

Teams of doctors came in all at once. In harvesting organs, time is of the essence. The longer it takes to transport an organ to the next recipient means greater risk of organ failure. Voices melded together, incisions were made, coolers filled with valuable contents ready to be transported emergently to the next location. I stood still. I could see nothing but the flurry of people and hands. Voices coordinating, these people seemed to move as one.

The moment lasted an eternity, but was over in a flash.

Teams of people rushed out of the room, emptying the room slowly and all at once. Before I knew it, I was alone with a lifeless body. I stood on the high stool looking down at the scene. An eerie feeling came over me. It was a moment before I could soak in the strangest thing of all. The operating room was silent. There were no lungs left for the ventilator to breathe into. The empty space of the heart could no longer beat. The heart monitor was silent. The intravenous pumps had been turned off. In the cold silence, I stood frozen and alone.

Will someone come back to get me?

No one came for what seemed a long time. Then, muffled voices were outside the room again. Careful not to disturb the empty stillness, I stepped down and crept away before they came in.

I wondered about the spirit of this man whose organs would now scatter across the country to carry life forward. I wondered about this role of a medical student to see and experience everything, but not yet be a part of the experience.

I stepped down as an outsider and realized that I was now inside.