The Ballerina Rejected by the Greek

Aris

Athens, August 25

Dear Diary,

Hello, my name is Aris.

Hi, this is my first entry here and, well, I’m not sure how to start. Actually, I don’t even know if I’ll continue this. But the thing is, I’ve decided to use this diary to record a few things. Maybe in a simple and straightforward way. Writing isn’t exactly my strong suit.

The reason I chose to start a diary at this moment is that I’m about to begin a new chapter in my life. Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving home to study at the University of Thessaloniki, over 500 kilometers away from Athens. It seems like a big move, but it’s actually a short distance compared to others I’ve traveled in life.

Well, some of those stories can wait for another time. The focus now is on college and the anxiety it’s causing my family. Yes, I know that parents generally suffer when the day comes for their children to leave home, but mine have an extra factor that makes them extremely overprotective.

I guess this is common when you’re a survivor. And I am in more than one way, but what troubles them the most is the fact that I almost died at seven years old due to a heart condition. I was saved by a transplant.

There are things people don’t often talk about regarding transplant recipients. To the general public, someone who needs an organ donation gets their happy ending when they finally find a donor. But the truth is, that’s not the end, it’s the beginning.

My new life started on September 24. So much so that the actual date of my birthday became less significant to me and those around me. My family and those who love me began celebrating the day of my transplant as my birthday every year.

I know it’s hard for any human being to see themselves as just a statistical number, but the truth is, we’re all, in some way, part of one or even several of them. I’ll share some of mine.

About 37% of people on the organ transplant waiting list end up dying without receiving a transplant. Of those who survive until they get a compatible organ, in the case of heart transplants, 72% gain at least five more years of life. Another 20% reach the twenty-year mark.

I don’t know if I’ll be among the 8% who make it past this second stage, as I haven’t even reached it yet. I was transplanted at the age of seven. Ten years, eleven months, and one day ago. And counting.

And I’m doing very well. In fact, I’m great. Another thing people don’t usually mention is that, in many cases, the quality of life after a transplant is much better than before. No constant pain, no shortness of breath. If it weren’t for the large scar on my chest, I might not even remember in my daily life that the heart pumping blood through my body came from someone else.

Of course, there are other things that remind me of this, such as regular check-ups, a more regulated diet, some special concerns... And a family that fears I might die at any moment.

And this brings us to the statistics for which the World Health Organization has not released any data.

A large portion (if not all) of the children who receive a transplant are seen by their families as true miracles. The day of my surgery was undoubtedly the happiest day of my family’s life. A victory. A new beginning. A hope. A miracle.

However, the reason behind this organ's availability is precisely the same as the complete devastation of another family. A tragedy. A destruction. An emptiness that will never be filled. That was the death of another child.