He is not a doctor. Not even in the loosest sense of the word.
No white coat. No stethoscope. He could be anyone: an accountant, an administrator, a manager. Neither part of the medical team nor the patient’s retinue; he is an outsider—an Intruder into this neat little sterilized world of surgical smocks and medication rounds. He does not belong, sticking out like a sore thumb in the midst of anxious family and ward professionalism: a lone island of indifferent calm amid the endless bustle of this high-stakes environment where lives hang in the balance every day.
They do not like him. It is clear to see the resentment and mistrust in their eyes. His purpose is anathema to theirs. Their concern is for life—on its preservation, on cure and revival above all else. His role is for death. Where their efforts fail, his begins.
It is a thankless profession to be a transplant coordinator. To both tireless hospital staff and the grieving family alike you are a vulture circling roadkill. A jackal waiting for the dust to clear before making its spring. From the perspective of relatives mourning a sudden loss you are the devil; a smarmy salesman thinking to make one last profit from their misfortune, to wring every drop of blood from the deceased’s mortal shell. To the doctors and nurses whose efforts have failed, your presence is a reminder of their failure—a subtle taunt of their capabilities and limitations. If only they were faster….more observant…more dexterous with the scalpel, they might not have needed to involve you at all. They try to hide it, but you see it in their faces. They do not wish you here; do not need you here. The last thing they need is to be lectured on the benefits about organ donation, or how recovered tissue might save yet more lives in the balance. The loss and failure is too sudden and too raw to consider such notions.
This is what my predecessor told me when I enlisted: it is a thankless trade, and not suited for everyone. Not all respond well to solitude and rejection. Yet we too have our stories of the trade. Our legends. Here is one of them:
In a certain city of a certain country is a hospital where a transplant coordinator resides. He keeps to himself and he does his job well, which is more than can be said for others in the situation. What is surprising about the whole thing, however, is his track record. Every eligible case that is referred; he clinches. Every family he has approached—however grief-stricken or volatile—has rendered him their consent. This alone is unprecedented. In our experience, shaken relatives are not known to be level-headed or reasonable. And yet they oblige him after a short discussion in the last-office room.
It is almost like magic…and in a way, actually is—
According to the story, the coordinator offers to strike a deathbed bargain: to bring the departed back to life for a short period of time to leave a legacy or say their final goodbyes. The cost of service is not anybody’s soul, however. Instead, the cost is to be paid in flesh—a pair of corneas for a single minute’s grace; the pledge of the departed’s skin (if deemed suitable) for two. Families who consent to donating entire organs get more time in recompense, scaling with the importance of the organ in question. A kidney might buy five minutes, a heart ten, and so on—with an hour the most he can offer in exchange for an entire body. Anything more than that would be an unfair trade and upset the balance. He has no interest in cheating customers. All he provides is a service; an opportunity for last words to be exchanged in return for something the deceased will have no use for eventually. People can be selfish, after all. It is not hard to imagine that few would be on board with the idea of giving up something for nothing; be it money, time, or even bodily tissues. Once the paperwork is signed there is a binding contract. No second guessing, no takebacks.
This is the urban legend which we tell among our circles: that somewhere out there lurks a death deity plying our trade, doing their best to integrate in a modern society which has forgotten them, attempting their own contribution to making the world a better place.
Puts us in pretty prestigious company when looked at that way, doesn’t it? And honestly, who doesn’t fantasize about the ability to offer our clients something in exchange on occasion—something to sweeten the deal from their perspective or make the whole concept of ‘donation’ worthwhile?
“You’d think so,” was what my senior colleague told me when I raised this notion. “But no. For it to have any meaning, a donation has to be simply that—a donation. If trade of any kind is involved, there is nothing heartfelt about it. It becomes a mere transaction, one that can be conducted by any street peddler. Though it might seem that way at times, we aren’t peddlers. We guide; present clients with options. After that, they are free to choose without being influenced in any way. If the story were true, and a god did walk among us, they’d be a piss-poor example of the breed.”
“Or more interested in making bank and showing good reports to the higher ups,”
“Well sure, that too. But you know what they say about temptation—”
It is then that I realize it is not a Christian cross my mentor wears; as initially supposed, but an ankh: symbol of life, death and rebirth. It catches the light as he goes for his phone, which despite the late hour is playing the dreaded ringtone those of our trade know so well.
“Welp, duty calls. I’ll take this one, mind holding the fort here, rookie?”
He says this as he heads out from the lit workstations of our morgue and into the darker hallways of the hospital beyond. The dimmer surroundings outside warp his shadow into otherworldly shapes and shrouds his features, not quite hiding the unexpected, feral glint of one eye. I straighten and return a nod. He’s been in the biz a lot longer than I have, doesn't seem to age and is the best mentor I’ve got. Frankly, it’s rather embarrassing that it took this long to figure it out. Better late than never, though.
“Give ‘em hell...Lord Anubis,”