2002

It was May 13th. I marched through the fury of summer storms and the burning winds that lingered since March. The sun showed no mercy. Temperatures soared past 40°C. I endured April, the cruelest month, gasping through smog and dust that triggered relentless vomiting. IV fluids became my lifeline. My body weakened, gripped by distress.

Chennai baked under the sweltering heat. I shrank into a coil of suffering. Power cuts offered no relief. Prickly heat tormented me. Rashes spread as sweat trickled down. There was no escape.

While others stayed indoors or rushed to Marina Beach for comfort, I found my refuge in Apollo Hospital. It became my royal infirmary. The doctors allowed me only 300 ml of liquid a day—tea, coffee, milk, juice combined. I chose water. Just water.

I rationed it with care: 75 ml in the morning, sipping 5 ml every hour. I sprinkled a few drops on my tongue to keep it moist. I saved 150 ml for swallowing my medicines. That’s how I turned water into treasure.

Even when Agni Nakshatram—the “fire star”—reached its peak, I didn’t feel it. The medical team kept me safe under constant observation.

The hour had come. It was time for revival. I saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

My sister entered the room. She looked into my eyes and gently held my hand.
“Brother, you will get a new life,” she said.

I asked about her two-year-old son, Prem.
“He’s with our elder sister in Vencode, Kanyakumari,” she said softly.

Guilt rushed over me. Because of me, that little boy was without his mother. I asked about Acily, my niece. My sister mumbled a brief reply, then fell silent. Her eyes held back tears. I didn’t press her. But in my heart, I longed for peace. May the children thrive, I prayed. That was my deepest plea.

That evening, I had my final dialysis session. I vomited again, though I tried to hide it. The team calmly handled everything. They connected me back to IV fluids and placed me on a liquid diet. Tomorrow was the transplant.

Relatives arrived—my grandmother, my mother-in-law (I call her “Mother”), my brother-in-law, cousins, and others. My sister stayed with me as my attendant. I noticed her restlessness. She kept pacing—inside the room, outside near the window, then back to my bed.

In trying to comfort me, she needed comfort herself. Soon, the medical team arrived. They asked her to go for the final set of tests. They wheeled me through corridors for assessments: tissue cross-match at 5%, safely within range. Bleeding time—150 seconds. Clotting time—540 seconds. Serum electrolytes—normal. Potassium—slightly low at 3.4 mEq/L.

While doctors reviewed the reports, my thoughts drifted to Prem and Acily.
What if something goes wrong? I wondered. Who will care for them? The worry gripped me. I longed to share it with my wife, but I didn’t get the chance.

She arrived at 4:45 PM. Our eyes met. I saw boldness in hers. Her strength poured into me. We didn’t need many words. We spoke the language of the soul. She had faced this storm head-on. But in our embrace, she wept. And I wept with her.

I didn’t see our daughter with her. I didn’t ask. I knew she was too young to be brought into the sterile area. As my wife hugged me, my soul whispered, Jeb will return. Her presence renewed my spirit.

By 5 PM, the doctors gave final instructions. The transplant team stood ready. They checked my blood pressure, temperature, and vitals with reverent care.

At 6:30 PM, they moved me to the recipient’s ward. My sister was in the donor section, just 40 feet away. At 7, Dr. Subbha Rao gave the green light. The team began their systematic preparations. By 11 PM, a nurse noticed my blood pressure had risen slightly. She smiled gently. “Just relax and sleep,” she said.

I nodded three times and turned my head to rest. I drifted into deep, unknown sleep. The next day dawned—Tuesday, May 14th, 2002. My second life. A new beginning. At 5 AM, the team woke me. By 6, everything moved like clockwork. They administered anesthesia. I slipped into an even deeper sleep. I gave myself over to their care. I surrendered. I don’t remember anything that followed. I have no memory of how they performed the miracle. But they did.

Twenty-four hours later, I woke up in the transplant room. I felt different. A catheter and IV lines connected to my body. Monitors blinked softly nearby. Then I saw her—my wife. My in-laws. My friends. My family. They stood fifteen feet away behind a glass window. I tried to lift my head. I couldn’t.

In the next 48 hours, I sensed that my sister was recovering well. Under constant hospital lighting, I couldn’t distinguish day from night. On the morning of May 16th, a kind nurse brought me wheat upma—my first food in this new life. The staff gave me medicine on time, helped me sit up, and then walk. They gave me water every hour, recording every drop.

“You must drink plenty of water now,” they said. Unlimited water. Oh God! What a gift! The very thing I had been denied for months was now given freely. Water—God’s simplest creation—revived me. It brought light and joy to my soul. After four days, my sister was discharged. She visited my room. I told her I was healing well and would see her at home in five days.

What does such a gift cost? It’s love.

23 years of extended life!! Blessed life!!!

Jebamony Mathias

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” —1 John 3:1