I was the kid who had one job on the team: kick the field goals. Through two seasons of football, I had a record of 12/1 and missed breaking the state record for longest field goal on the one I missed by inches. The one I missed, the kick had the leg; it just veered right. Neither the miss nor the loss that night came as a surprise to anyone.

My nickname of ‘Mr. Automatic’ died that night last year, which was bound to happen at some point, so it wasn’t heartbreaking or anything like that—yet.

My senior year kicking field goals went off the rails in our second game of the season. I was loosening up on the sidelines while my team faced a third and twelve situation we had little chance of making, and I felt the most intense thud in my chest, followed by a blinding stabbing pain that took my breath away. For years, I’d had occasional unexplained chest pains, talked to my doctor a few times, and saw a specialist once, and the message was they weren’t seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Unfortunately for me, I was now seeing the grass through my helmet because I fell over and had my face planted due to the crippling pain.

According to the paramedics, I had flat-lined at some point during that episode. The pain I felt before the paramedics got to me was nothing compared to when they started working on me. The same question was yelled at me over and over: “What did you take?" I heard them asking “Does anyone know if he’s taken any drugs?"

I hadn’t taken a damn thing, but I couldn’t breathe to give an answer.

The paramedics were doing chest compressions while I stared blankly into the night sky, wondering why my chest was killing me, and I couldn’t hear anything. Of course, it was about to get worse, as I hadn’t noticed they’d slapped defibillator pads on my chest. I’m positive I got a glimpse of heaven when they let the juice flow through those wires. Not once, but twice!

I was transported to our local hospital, but after twenty minutes, it was decided I needed specialized care and got a ‘Life Flight’ ride in a helicopter to the state’s premier medical university, which is thirty miles away. I don’t remember any of that; in fact, I don’t remember anything much after they got my heart beating again. No sounds, the occasional blurry face, mostly blackness surrounding me after seeing heaven—maybe.

At the university hospital, the doctors moved quickly to figure out what was going on with an otherwise healthy 18-year-old boy. Time really did drip, drip, drip by, like the IV’s of whatever drugs they’d hooked to my arms. Lots of medical terms were spewed at my parents, sometimes quietly, other times not. I heard cardiomyopathy too many times to count, specifically with the word hypertrophic in front of that word.

Had I been able to do so, I’d have looked that up in those times I was being ignored by the adults in the room. Of course I didn’t have my phone, but it didn’t matter because my parents' faces told the real story. I didn’t need a phone to tell me whatever was going on with my heart was bad. And after a couple days in the hospital, it was confirmed that I was going to be added to the heart donor wait list.

Besides being scared at the prospect of having to get my heart replaced, it was actually kind of ironic that the year before, the senior class had a drive to get the student body to sign up to be organ donors. I had signed up, along with thirty percent of the eligible student body that hadn’t already signed up. The statistics are insane: seventeen people a day die before they could get a viable donated organ, and at any given time, there are a little over three thousand people needing a heart transplant in the US alone.

The next two months of my life were some of the worst I’d ever endured. Doctor visits, countless tests, and drugs—I had no idea what their purpose was except to keep my heart beating—and, of course, I was doing little more than laying around so I could worry that my heart would give out and I’d maybe get to see heaven after getting my heart jolted again a few more times. In addition to that, my parents were overwhelmed. No, the medical bills weren’t their big worry; though I imagine they were astronomical, they were worried about me and trying to hide that so I wouldn’t worry.

Really? I saw it and could feel the stress emanating from them with every strained beat of my heart.

For me, my biggest worry was something very different. It would take someone dying to give me a chance at living. How poetic, to live on through another’s death. Tell me that ain’t something that’s mind-blowing.

The process for being chosen isn’t ‘first in line, first served’, though I’m sure that might factor in a little. As time passed on the waiting list, I learned hearts didn’t successfully transplant without a bit more thought and extreme medical science being involved. They looked at all the factors that would give the donated heart the best chance to survive in its new host body. That drove the majority of the decision as to who got picked when the opportunity presented itself.

The doctors knew more about my body at the DNA level, my life expectancy with and without a transplant, and even something as mundane as whether or not I’d smoked or done any drugs. The answer to those last two questions was ‘No’, but I did have to admit to having drunk alcohol a few times, which got me some grief from my parents.

My goal at this point was to live to see the next sunrise. The doctor said I’d be fine and I should make a New Year’s resolutions because I'd still be breathing. Okay, how about not having another defibulator experience? Did that qualify as a resolution?

>-*^*-<

On day seventy-one on the heart transplant list, my parents got the call that I was the best match for a donated heart, right from the city we lived outside of by thirty miles. Time was of the essence, and since mom and I were living in a recovery home blocks from the university’s hospital to continue my care, we were at the hospital in less than thirty minutes to begin the process. To say I was scared shitless would be an understatement.

I was hooked up to two IV’s to promote acceptance of the donated heart. We were then told the heart was from a healthy woman donor close to my age. By this time, we knew that the ‘gender’ of the donor had little to do with whether or not the heart was the best match for someone of the opposite gender. Predictive models based on everything they knew about me and what they could get from the donor’s medical history indicated my body's chance of rejecting the new heart was calculated to be only 28 percent.

That percentage sounded high to me, but according to the doctors, the new hearts matching my body made that conservative percentage nearly perfect, which is why I’d been chosen.

Prepped for surgery, something had been added to my IV that made me less nervous, and I was looking at my parents trying to smile at me through the worry on their faces.

“We’ll see you on the other side, son; everything’s going to work out fine, okay? I love you, Danny,” my dad said, tears streaming down his face and his hand squeezing mine.

Mom could barely speak but got out that she loved me, kissed my forehead, and the bed I was in started moving. I watched the lights pass over my head as I was being wheeled to the OR, not nearly as nervous as I should be. I wondered if this heart would make me ‘feel’ different, and I chuckled at that, which got the nurse who was accompanying me to give me a concerned look.

In the OR, the doctor who I’d met only once and for barely three minutes said, "Alright, Danny, we’re going to begin in just a moment. You’ll be fine.”

That was the last thing I heard.

>-*^*-<

What I heard next was someone wailing, a broken-hearted shriek, light being shined into my eyes, and the steady tone of some machine that shrilled like I was hearing it full on inside my head.

Hello?! What’s happening?!

“Clear! Clear! Clear!”

Sparks lit up my world, pain produced a stark whiteness, and then there was complete silence...

Is this heaven? So much for making it to the New Year...

>-*^*-<

I could hear the steady beeping of the machine before the idea that I could open my eyes occurred to me. Rhythmic, steady, strong... I tried to open my eyes, but I could only manage a squint. I thought I was alone in the room until I saw her move from the shadows to the foot of the bed. She looked to be wearing scrubs, and my foggy brain and desert dry mouth made me ask, "Nuuuse, Whaada."

I watched her come to my side, then point to the tray table next to my bed where there was a cup sitting. Did she expect me to get it myself? Can’t you just help me? I was angry but too thirsty to complain, not that I had much of a voice. I concentrated hard, and my arm moved towards the cup, hand-grabbing it, and shakily, I brought the straw to my mouth. Her hand was right there, next to mine, maybe helping me, and she was smiling the whole time at me.

“Very good. You gave me a little scare earlier,” she said.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but she was looking at me strangely, so I focused on getting a few small sips down before I tried to put the cup back. I must not have had the strength and lost control of it, spilling water all over myself and the bed. I looked at the nurse, but she was leaving. A moment later, another nurse was rushing through the door, moving the sheets, and trying to deal with the water, saying something I couldn't.

There was an increased pace to the beeping machine next to me…

>-*^*-<

“How are you feeling, Danny?”

"Okay, I guess. My chest really hurts, like really bad,” I complained.

“That’s going to be the case for a while; the sutures are healing nicely. You’ll have an ugly scar on your chest, but hey, chicks dig scars,” the doctor said with a little laugh.

What was I supposed to say about that? I looked at my mom, but she just continued to smile, and my dad looked like he was agreeing with the doctor.

“So, we’re going to want to get you standing today; maybe have you take a few steps. If you have any problems with that—pain, dizziness, sickness—I want you to tell the nurse, understood? You’ll be hooked up to all kinds of monitoring equipment, so we’re going to get a good idea as to how your new heart is doing.”

Mom couldn’t help herself and chimed in, asking, “It’s not too soon?”

“He hasn’t had any arrhythmia issues for eight days,” he said, looking at a clipboard in his hand. “We need this so we can prevent other issues, specifically blood clots, and the sooner we know the heart can withstand a little stress, the sooner we’re into rehab with him. All his vitals look very promising since, well, the day after surgery. I can assure you this is standard procedure, and his heart is very much a fighter.”

Yeah, defibulator the day after the transplant, no fun, and blown New Year’s resolution.

>-*^*-<

At almost the one-month mark of my recovery, my new heart was operating in a resting state with an abnormally faster heart rate than desired by my doctors. The doctors couldn’t explain the anomaly, and after trying a few different drugs and consulting various doctors around the country, it was suggested I be prescribed a microdose of estrogen. He explained that all men needed the presence of this female hormone, generally in the 10–40 pg/mL range, but since my levels were closer to 10 than 40 and the donor heart had come from a woman, raising the level in my system was something he wanted to try in the short term. He assured me I wouldn’t grow breasts or anything crazy would happen because of this.

The fuck!? Breasts! I could hear the heart meter beside me tick up a few beats from my worrying about possibly growing breasts! Yeah, I wasn’t a fan of this idea, and I told my mom after he’d left what I thought about it.

Within hours of the first injection, my heart rate had lowered to just barely above normal levels. By the next day, it was functioning in the range the doctor thought acceptable, and by all accounts, it hadn’t adversely increased any of the girl cooties coursing through my body. Truthfully, I felt a whole lot better. Long-term, my doctor’s goal was to wean me off of having to inject estrogen at all. I honestly didn’t care as long as the new heart didn’t up and fail me.

And I really didn’t want boobs…

>-*^*-<

I was allowed to return home just in time for Christmas! For some reason, it wasn’t just another holiday for me; I felt different about it, more connected to the idea that someone had given me the biggest gift of all—life—and they’d sacrificed for me.

Rehab had been brutal, though, so lying in my own bed, around my own things, and away from beeping machines charged with keeping me alive was certainly comforting. I was going to miss one of the nurses in particular, who’d been on duty in the ICU and my rehab room most nights. She might have been four or six years older than me, but she treated me like I was an adult. The fact that she was pretty didn’t hurt with my infatuation.

Nurse Katie would sit and talk with me for twenty, thirty minutes, leave before another nurse would come in to do my vitals, and then come back to listen to whatever was on my mind. Sometimes I’d be sleeping and wake up to her standing nearby. She’d say she just popped in to see how I was doing—just keeping an eye on me, she said. It was all very comforting, and now I was missing her company alone in my room with my mom hovering over me like a baby duckling every time I made a noise, coughed, or farted.

One of the last conversations with Nurse Katie was a little odd; she’d asked, “Do you think you feel different about who you are now?”

“No, not really. I think I’m still me, though I’d like to know who she was." I had assumed we were talking about my new heart donor.

“They don’t allow that, but I’d like you to know some day.”

“Well,” I leaned towards her, all conspiratorial. “If you can find out on the DL, I’d like to meet her family and thank them.”

"It wouldn't have mattered what they thought, Danny; she made the choice to donate, and as I understand it, she wasn’t close to her family.”

“Really?”

"Yes,” she said, looking sad.

That ‘look’ wasn’t lost on me; I’d seen it a few times before, mostly when we talked about our families.

"Well, that bites... I’d still like to have told someone how grateful I am.”

“She knows,” she said, smiling before standing and walking toward the door. “See you in a bit."

I called after her, "Thanks, Katie." just as another nurse was entering my room.

She looked confused. “Katie?”

“The nurse that just left,” I said.

“Ah, okay… I didn't see her, I guess. Ready for your walk down the hall?” she asked all business.

How couldn’t she have not seen Katie; she was just there at the door a second ago?

>-*^*-<

My first night sleeping in my own bed, I woke in a panic from a dream involving Katie. I could see her in her usual teal scrubs as she approached a street. She stepped off of the curb while looking back at something, and I saw her body flying through the air after being hit by a ‘Quick-Del’ delivery truck. When I made it over to her crumpled mass of broken body, I could see blood, and she wasn’t moving.

I woke up with my chest aching, on the verge of hyperventilation, and I cried out for my mom. When she came into the room, I started spewing my dream at her, struggling to catch my breath.

“Easy Danny… Look at me, look... Look honey… Just a dream, sweetie; you need to slow this down. Slow breaths, slow... Mike!" She placed her hand on my chest. "Slowly... Just breathe…”

My dad was at the door, a glass of water in hand and a pill bottle too.

I took whatever pill they gave me, and the foul taste remained even after I drained the glass of water. It took nearly five minutes before whatever she’d given me took hold, and I could feel my body relaxing, and my heart didn’t feel like it was pounding out of my chest.

My mind was racing, though, and I knew I needed to check on Katie. I’d do that as soon as my parents left me alone.

>-*^*-<

“Hello, ah… Would it be possible to get the ICU nurses desk, please?” I asked the operator at nearly a whisper. I couldn’t let my parents know what I was doing. It was nearly 3 a.m.

“One moment…”

I heard the clicks and then the buzzing sound of a ringing phone before, "ICU."

“Yeah, ah, is there a nurse, Katie, working tonight?”

“Katie? Are you sure she’s an ICU nurse? We’ve got Karen on right now, but no Katie unless she’s from some other department."

“Could she have been part of the OR team?”

“Which team? Wait, this sounds like Danny, right?”

“Yeah, I’m a... I was just wondering if Nurse Katie was on tonight,” I repeated, flustered.

"How are you doing, Danny? This is Michelle. Only Karen, Allen, and Jessie are on tonight with me. I honestly don’t know any nurses named Katie who’ve worked in the ICU or even the OR. Let me ask the others, though."

I could hear she’d put the phone down and was talking to people in the background. A few seconds later, she was back. “No, we haven’t had anyone named Katie working in the ICU that anyone recalls. No last name, sweetie?”

“No, I… She never told me her last name.” Come to think of it I never saw her badge.

“You could look up the staff listing on the hospital's website. Some of us have pictures attached,” she offered.

“Okay, I’ll try that. Thank you…”

“Take care of yourself, Danny... You really should be resting, you know.”

“I know; I promise I’ll crash,” I offered.

>-*^*-<

I’d spent too much time chasing hospital staff personnel named ‘Katie’ or ‘Kaitlyn’ on the website and hadn’t come up with one who was a nurse. Switching gears, I tried searching Google for ‘nurse + Katie + delivery truck accident’. The results gave me a local hit but lacked the word ‘nurse’, so I didn’t bother looking at it.

Since I was fading fast from whatever my mom had me take, I figured I could pick this up in the morning. Something wasn’t adding up, though, but I was going to get to the bottom of it. That was my new New Year’s resolution—to find Katie!

>-*^*-<

Christmas had come and gone. I’d been spoiled by my parents, grandparents, and a couple of aunts and uncles like never before.

I still hadn’t found Nurse Katie, which was frustrating because she was showing up in my dreams now regularly. When she was in them, they were a mix of terrible things happening to her, like getting hit by that delivery truck or some assholes were harassing her, and I couldn’t understand why. There was also one where she was trying to explain something to me, and I just didn’t understand.

“I came here to transition,” she said to me in one dream. “My brother lives here, but he’s on the fence about it.”

We were both carrying cups of water and an umbrella each into the kitchen, and I asked, “Transition, for what?”

She replied, "For myself, to be the real me..."

Then we weren’t in the kitchen, and she was holding a woman’s hand and took a nail file to the ladies fingers as I sat there watching. I asked if she should be doing that in her work scrubs.

"I'm operating here, Danny; find the truck."

What truck? I asked as the alarm next to my bed started buzzing.

>-*^*-<

"Are you alright, honey?”

No, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to explain how weird some of my last few weeks worth of dreams had been. My parents had been through enough; it made no sense to make them think I was losing my mind too.

“Just tired,” I offered.

“We’ve got a check-up at the hospital with Dr. Kerri and the heart stress test; should I call and cancel?”

“No, I’m just not sleeping very well. I’m good…”

>-*^*-<

I was putting my shirt back on in the changing room when I heard a knock on the door.

“You about done in there, Daniel?”

I spun around to answer, and standing there in front of the door was Katie! I took a step back, surprised. She held a finger to her mouth and nodded her head twice towards the door.

Huh? Oh, answer the nurse...

“Yeah, just about out,” I called out tentatively.

“Okay, just go down to Dr. Kerri’s office on the second floor. Your mom and he are waiting to go over your results.”

“Sure…”

When I was sure the nurse had left, I looked wide-eyed at Katie and whispered, “Hey! Why can’t I find that you work for the hospital?”

She shook her head ‘No’ at me.

“What does that mean? You’re wearing scrubs; aren’t you a nurse?”

She shook her head ‘No’ again slowly.

There was something different about her; something was off.

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head 'No', and tried to speak, but no words came out of her mouth, but I heard them clearly in my head.

“Find the truck."

The look of panic on my face made her take a step back. She looked sad, and my heart felt weary, aching in a way I hadn’t expected.

“What the hell is going on here, Katie? If you’re not a nurse, who are you?”

I watched as she turned and walked through the closed changing room door.

Ahhh… WTF!

>-*^*-<

When I made it to the doctor’s office, both mom and he looked concerned. I told them I was fine, but in truth, I was still reeling from seeing Katie. What I’d thought was a concerned nurse all this time was either some impossible ghost encounter or I was seriously losing my mind.

Through everything the doctor was saying, all I could think about was Katie’s voice in my head saying, ‘Find the truck." Thankfully, the test results from the stress test were all positive, as were all my blood work results too. I was told I wouldn’t need any more estrogen shots—the least of my worries right now...

>-*^*-<

When we got home, I said I was going to lie down, but it was a lie. In my room, I opened my laptop and looked at my search results from last night, clicking on the first listing, which read: Local transgendered woman killed in accident.

Seattle Police are investigating a delivery truck/pedestrian accident Thursday afternoon at Mercer Street and Boren Ave.

According to police, officers were called to the 100 block of Mercer Street at 5:12 p.m. for a report of a 'Quick Del' delivery truck having hit a pedestrian. Witnesses state the victim, Kaitlyn 'Katie' Baker, had legally entered the crosswalk and was struck. Miss Baker, a 20-year-old transgendered woman, was transported to the UW Medical Center and was later pronounced dead later that evening.

I lay back on my bed and burst into tears. I knew I’d found Katie; even without a picture, I knew this was her story. How could this be real, I thought while sobbing. I’d talked to her for hours; she was there in my recovery room most of the time I was awake. The cup of water that night, she’d helped me drink it. So many instances of her having done things for me, but try as I might, I couldn’t find a single instance that had her physically ‘doing’ something for me or us even touching.

When I recovered, I clicked on the comments to the story. There were plenty of angry comments being thrown around, mostly at the city council for not doing enough to fix the “Mercer Mess," some sad at the loss of a beautiful life, and a few assholes who had to pile on their unnecessary thoughts about someone who was Trans.

I found a comment by someone named Nicky that read:

Katie was beautiful in every way imaginable. We worked together for a year, and I can’t believe she’s gone. God, you made a ****ing mistake taking her from us!

The post was two months old, but I clicked on it to reply and typed:

Could I talk with you about Katie?

I gave her my email address. I prayed she would get back to me.

The day before New Year's, I got an email from Nicky with her phone number. Within the email, she said, “I’ve been expecting you to reach out; call me."

>-*^*-<

“Danny?” A woman’s voice asked.

“Yeah, ah… How did you know?”

“Katie’s been bugg’n the piss out of me in my dreams. She invading yours?”

“Mmmuh, I don’t get any of this; how can this be?” I asked.

“You and me both, but she wanted you to know she’s fine and happy that someone like you has her heart,” Nicky said.

“She tells you that?”

“Yes, in many dreams, and sometimes more forceful than others.”

“She never told me that,” I replied, confused.

"Might it be some spirit code thing or something? I ain’t got any of her parts, so maybe she could confide in me…"

“I asked her about her family... To thank them, but she told me, I mean, I didn’t realize it was her heart until like a couple days ago, and I mean, this is like crazy, right?”

“Kid, it is crazy, but look at the bigger picture ‘kay, she got to really know you, the person taking on her heart, so she’s at peace—you should be too. I promise she’s happy and in a good place now.”

“She hasn’t been in my dreams since I last saw her, ah, at the hospital."

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was just a checkup, and she was there, but it was different. She couldn’t speak, but I heard her in my head,” I confessed.

“’kay, well, that’s good, you’re okay... So, I think she’s crossed over Danny. She’d been fighting it until you knew, and like I said, I think it’s a ghost thing where she couldn’t just tell you. I’m so sorry.

"Shit… I would have thanked her, you know, I really thanked her,” I whined, tears welling in my eyes.

“Trust me, she knew, and her getting to see what a great person you were made all the difference to her. She told me that. Look, I don’t generally believe in this spirit shit, but when you’re visited while dreaming, it tends to make you a believer,” Nicky said with a little chuckle.

“But, I… Who was she?” I asked.

“She was an esthetician, so she was all about touching people and loved to listen mostly. You know she was Trans; she just wanted to be her true self, you know.”

“She was in scrubs, though, all the time."

“That’s our uniform.”

“She said she had a brother; something about him not liking she was transitioning.”

Nicky was slow to answer. “He’s softened his views on that, especially after he’d found out she’d donated organs that saved six different people. This is going to blow your mind… I’ve talked to two others about her.”

“No fucking way! How is that even possible?!”

We talked and speculated, but I don’t think either of us would ever fully understand any of this. I learned a pretty woman was so much more beautiful than I had realized. The last thing Nicky passed on was that Katie wanted me to do good in life. That became my new New Year’s resolution.

Epilog:

Nine years have passed, I’m a University of Washington Law School graduate, have argued thirteen pro-bono LGBTQ+ cases, married, and we’re expecting our first child. Our due date was January 3rd, but our daughter, Kaitlyn Niccole Perry, was born early on December 30th at 3:18 a.m.

Katie’s heart still beats strong within me. I'm not sure my wife digs the scar and I do ‘feel’ differently about my life with both Katie's in it. I sometimes feel she pops in on me just to see how I’m doing. I miss her, but I feel her with every heartbeat.

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