Tissue-Match Man

'Is he dead?' 'His brain is. The machines are keeping him going. Once we switch off, that'll be it.' No, it won't . . . I can breath on my own . . . I'm not brain dead . . . can't you see that, you stupid idiots . . . do an EEG. 'Didn't the EEG show anything at all?' 'Not a flicker. Still it's not all bad news. There's a young girl on the renal unit with a perfect tissue match.' You can't use me as a donor . . . I'm not dead . . . look, I can move my fingers . . . can't you see my fingers moving? Look! Damn you! Look at my hands. 'How long do we have to wait?' 'Until the next of kin give the OK. There shouldn't be any problem, there's no close relatives. Shit! What's that? He's fibrillating . . . get the crash team . . . now!' 'We're loosing him . . . blood pressure 50/30 . . . no pulse.' 'Shit! Turn off that alarm . . . somebody, turn off that bloody alarm!' I turned off the alarm by thrashing my arm out, knocking my bleeper on to the floor. When I retrieved it, the display flashed up Intensive Care's number - Shirley-Anne's parents had arrived. I had been asleep for two hours, the only sleep to come my way in the last twenty-four hours, and I didn't feel the least bit refreshed.