He was an organ donor.

It wasn't a year prior to d-day that we were sitting alone in the conference room of the lawyers office while they were off finalizing our wills. Some interesting topics had come up during the meeting and it sparked a conversation about funerals and what we wanted done with our bodies. We joked and laughed because he was good at that, making me laugh even when were discussing the most morbid topics.

Little did I know, less than a year later I'd be forced to recall that conversation. 

"Yes," I said to the nurse who came up to me and asked if he was an organ donor. 

I was fortunate enough to have a friend at the hospital who warned me about the call from the donor center. It would be long, and it would get personal, and how do you even have a conversation like that when your world is crumbling around you?

Somehow I managed.

Unfortunately, there's not a "select all" answer. So while family and friends gathered in the house and back yard, I paced the driveway--with my lab at my heals. She was confused too--answering questions about retinas and ligaments and sexual activities and medications and things I didn't know the answers to. It was tedious and there were tears, and the young man doing the interview was exceedingly patient. 

A few weeks later, I received an official thank-you letter and a certificate. I read the first few lines then promptly put the letter away. I wasn't ready to read a list of what they'd taken, what small parts of him might still be out there.

It's still tucked in his desk drawer in his office. Maybe one day I'll read it.