This week I’m appearing in a small local production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, something that I initially talked myself out of for a few reasons, but chiefly because the performances fell on both the anniversary of the day my donor died and my second birthday itself.
The day my donor died is incredibly special to me. I went into surgery at 00:15 on 20 November 2007, meaning my donor died the day before my transplant. Which means I separate anniversaries into an annual day of remembrance and a day of celebration.
For my second birthday I try to do something I couldn’t have done before my transplant, so the play is a perfect fit. But the day my donor died is always a day of quiet reflection, away from phones, screens and life in the “real world,” usually in the avenue of trees dedicated to organ donors at Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire.1
Doing this show would mean I couldn’t do that; I wouldn’t have the energy to fit both into the day. To put that to one side, even for a single year, felt like a big thing. Not felt like, is. It is a big thing.
Even when one of the cast had to withdraw from the show, even when they called to ask if I’d join in, even when I knew I’d get to play a wonderful, multi-layered role, even when I learned I’d be sharing the role—which meant less concern about having enough energy for all six shows—and even when I was excited by the idea, I still took a week to decide.
And it’s easily one of the top five decisions I’ve ever made.
Being part of this production has been incredibly good for me, just on a general level, helping me connect with more like-minded local people who throw themselves into things with a joy that more people need in their lives.
It’s the small team of four lovers, though, that has woken a part of me that I wasn’t sure even existed any more.2 Performing is part of who I am. It’s part of what makes me me. And last night, on the day my donor died, when I stepped out onto the stage the memories of the million dreams I used to have3 powered a performance I’m genuinely proud of.
It’s hard to think of any better way of honouring my donor than feeling more me than I’ve felt in a very long time.
Which might also be the reason that as soon as I came off stage and flicked off the “performer” switch I crumbled into a flood of tears as all of the emotions battled their way to the surface: gratitude, joy and pride mixed aggressively with grief and sadness and they jostled and bustled their way to the top and all poured out at once.
I’ve no idea how many people saw me quietly crying in a corner as they filtered back into the green room, nor do I care. Tears carry no shame. They are the testament to the depth of emotion that comes with being alive. Being here. Being able to do the things I couldn’t before.
Being given the gift of a new life is the greatest gift it’s possible to give. Being given a key to unlock a version of you long thought to be mere memory runs a clear second.
“You don’t have to nail everything or win it all. It’s about how you tackle it, what you feel, what you learn and the people you strive alongside and make memories with. Those are the things that matter.”
Khandsuren Gantogtokh
- Not long after my transplant, they named a tree for the charity I was part of founding driven by two incredible friends who didn’t make it as far as I have. That’s the tree I sit under every year. [↩]
- The story of the beautiful Hermia playing opposite my Lysander is another layer that makes this even more special, but that’s a story for another time. [↩]
- Yes, I have been re-watching The Greatest Showman [↩]