While gassing up on Friday, June 11, 2012, my cell phone rang.  

The caller ID was “Private”. Thinking it was a zealous telemarketer working overtime, I reached for the drop-dead button on the side of my phone. But since it was 9:15PM and I was tasked with the routine job of tanking up for our early NYC departure the next morning, I decided to have a little fun by answering the call with my finest broken Italo-English accent learned long ago by being a part of a large, extended Italian family. 

“Ciao, this Andy,” I said.

The caller responded, “Hi Andy, this is Colleen from Florida Hospital [now called Advent Hospital] in Orlando. It looks like we may have a kidney match for you.”

Before saying a word, my mind raced as I was convinced this was a prank concocted by sadistic friends out on a Friday night who probably had a few (or a lot) too many alcoholic beverages. My mind was unable to distinguish the caller’s voice. 

“You are going to have to get down here on the first flight tomorrow morning. Based on all of your blood draws over the past seven months, It appears that you’re a match. We can’t guarantee it’s a perfect match for you until we do an updated blood test once you’re here tomorrow.”

Sure, sure, sure. You want me to hop on a plane after being pinked with this call. What’s next? The Prince of Nigeria will meet me at the airport and give me the millions of dollars he’s been promising me in his emails?  

I continued leaning against the car and thought maybe this was not a joke. No one knew I had been going for monthly blood draws over “seven months” except my wife and myself. 

Not hearing any gas flowing, my wife got out of our car. After seeing the bewildered look on my face while on my phone, she took the gas nozzle out of my hand and began filling the tank. 

“Andy, after we get final test results back in four or five hours, I’ll call you to get your flight details.”

Usually verbose, the only words I could utter were, “Okay. Thank you, Colleen.” 

As promised, she called around 2AM and I was on a flight from PVD to MCO four hours later.

Once in Orlando, after I left the tram which transported me from my Southwest gate to the main terminal, I exited the transporter area with a throng of other arriving visitors. Suddenly, a voice called out, “Hey, Old Man.” 

As you probably know, Florida boasts attractions to capture the imaginations of the young but its sunshine is a magnet for older adults. Perhaps that is why my son, who lived just outside of Orlando, shouting out “Hey, Old Man” caused many old men’s heads to turn his way. 

Since my luggage for my anticipated three month recovery stay was being driven down to Orlando by another son and daughter the following week, there were no bags to claim and he turboed our 15 mile trek to the hospital no doubt prepared to plead my transplant plight to any police officer who might stop us.

Upon our 9:30AM arrival, I was brought to a surgery prep room where I was sedated until the time of my operation which was purposely scheduled to be the last of the organ transplants from the decedent in the event I encountered a travel snafu getting there. My son remained with me despite the fact that I frequently nodded off until they brought me into the operating room at 11PM. 

I remember being startled from my drowsiness by the brightness of the room and felt embarrassed by the tears streaming from my eyes. One of the doctors leaned over me and asked if I was in pain. “No,” I sniffled, “I feel so bad for the person that died and his or her family.” 

The doctor assured me that the family was at peace knowing their loved one was able to provide the gift of life to others. 

A few years after my kidney transplant, I learned that while I was in surgery, my son went to the surgical waiting area. While there, he observed a family who sat quietly, tortured by the sudden death of their teenage daughter yet consoled by the fact that their daughter’s organs would live on in others.

Due to confidentiality concerns, I was not able to confirm this with Florida Hospital’s Transplant Unit. However, I was able to communicate with the family in an anonymous letter which would be filtered through the transplant team. In my letter, I spoke of their loved one’s ultimate generosity by organ donation, my gratitude as my transplanted organ would allow me to walk my engaged daughter down the aisle and see future grandchildren. I further assured them that their loved one – and they – would be in my daily prayers. 

My play “Life Don’t Give You No Do Overs” brings you into a transplant surgical waiting room where you have the divorced parents of a high school football player who is being kept alive on life support while his bickering parents argue. The father wants his altruistic son’s desire to donate his organs honored while his mother refuses to consider it, “My son’s organs are not going to be harvested like some goddamned Kansas cornfield.”

There are racial undertones which surface between the privileged white family of Billy, the deceased, and the black family with their son surgically prepped to receive Billy’s heart transplant.    

As is the case with all of my writings I use humor to spice up conflicts. In “Do Overs” this is accomplished with a mute grandmother who communicates by ringing a necklace bell and writing quick notes, a laced with plenty of sass, a quirky aunt and a self-absorbed, narcissistic uncle.

By the end of this emotional roller-coaster of a play, you might experience uncontrollable tears as did I after being wheeled into my transplant operating room. 

Theaters may request a copy of “Life Don’t Give You No Do Overs” by clicking here.

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