MICHELLE COMPTON
Megan and I folding origami simultaneously, unaware of each other, or that our lives would soon
be permanently intertwined.
Organ Transplant Stories
Sadako and 1000 Cranes–Winter 2002
BY MICHELLE COMPTON
It’s that time of the year again. Winter, and December and Christmas are upon me as I unpack the boxes from the garage with ornaments and tinsel. I unpack our box of tiny paper tree ornaments and think of the girls these figurines represent: Sadako and Megan.
Sadako and One Thousand Cranes. The first time I heard that story was in 6th grade, after reading the book, Hiroshima, for English grammar class. There is a Japanese legend that says if you fold one thousand origami cranes, it will please the gods and they will grant you a wish. Sadako, a young Japanese girl, developed leukemia as a result of radiation from the Hiroshima blast at the end of World War II. She knew of the legend of 1000 cranes, and began folding paper cranes, wishing to become well again.
Unfortunately, Sadako died before completing her task. Now, people all over the world fold cranes and send them to Hiroshima, as part of the memorial erected in memory of Sadako.
In November of 1998, I began working on Christmas cards and ornaments for that year. I had been listed for transplant for 15 months, having waited a previous nine months to complete the testing to become listed for transplant. Before that, I’d researched double lung transplant for two years, since my doctors began suggesting that I needed such a dire procedure. As an added burden, I’d been wearing oxygen for two years full time, and to sleep with for a prior 18 months. 1998 was a particularly hard year for me, and by September I no longer could walk and carry oxygen, so I got around in a wheelchair. I knew my time on this planet was drawing to a close, and though I hoped a donor would be found, I was finishing my business - getting my affairs in order in case I died before I got a chance at transplant.
I had written my will, and my advanced directive for medical care. I’d made amends with my brother, and told each of my friends how much I loved them. I spent my days stuck between peace and fear…stress and release.
One of the things I began in November that year was folding origami. My friends Ana and Isa had shown me the previous Summer how to fold cranes, and I now practiced turning the pretty squares of paper into bunnies and stars, frogs and birds. It was interesting and creative, and not too physically challenging for me.
Then, on Dec 2, 1998, I got a call from the Stanford transplant team. Donor lungs had been located. The story is long, and would take hours to tell you, or chapters to write. The short version is that the surgery went well, and in the wee hours of December 3, I was given a new life. (Note: You may read more about Michelle’s transplant on Page 17, CF Roundtable, Winter 2000.)
During my recovery in the hospital, my dad brought my origami papers to me. My eyesight was temporarily damaged from the medications, and my fingers both swollen and shaky from the drugs, as well. I couldn’t read, or do crossword puzzles, or many of the other time-passing activities that I used to. But, I could manage to fold paper. I took to the little sheets with flowers on them and made more frogs and boxes and cats…and yes, cranes.
I returned home in time, and the months passed. Although I had some complications, they were tempered by a life that I had left years ago. I got to travel, and camp and hike, and actively enjoy my life in a way I had only dreamed of in the recent years. No longer did I spend my days stuck at home, in bed, or move about in a wheelchair gasping for every precious breath.
The first year passed, and the second was just as amazing as the first. I moved out of my parents’ house, met the love of my life, and completed my college degree in these first two years.
On the second anniversary of my transplant, a few close friends joined my sweetheart, my parents, and me for a hike in the nearby hills. Later that night my parents and my boyfriend, Stephen, lit candles with me. It is our ritual that we light a candle for my donor, in honor of her selfless act, and her family’s love and generosity.
After we’d lit the candles, my parents handed me a small box. Inside were a handful of those origami figures I’d folded seemingly so long ago. My mother had saved them for me, along with an article from the newspaper.
The article was about my donor, Megan. I knew that Megan was an only child and a freshman in high school who had died of a brain aneurysm. This story was about Megan and her friends, who had recently learned the story of Sadako and the Thousand Cranes. Megan and her friends, too, decided to fold origami cranes, with the intent of sending them to Hiroshima, to be part of the memorial to a girl lost so long ago.
My heart fluttered reading the article, my voice quivered. I tried to continue reading aloud, but could only think back to the hours and days before my transplant - Megan and I folding origami simultaneously, unaware of each other, or that our lives would soon be permanently intertwined.
Like Sadako, Megan never got the chance to finish folding her 1000 cranes. She died before they were completed. Reading this I choked back tears, again remembering my swollen fingers folding delicate paper into tiny ornaments, and knowing that she and I became one being during those weeks, in many different ways.
In her honor, her friends have completed Megan’s one thousand cranes. And in her memory, our Christmas tree is decked out in origami ornaments.
Michelle is 34 and lives in Mountain View, CA. She is the creator of “The Breathing Room” and “Through the Looking Glass”.