I called the transplant coordinator. “My name is Laura C. My son was Ethan C.”
There was a pause.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I need Rebecca’s contact information.”
Another pause.
I needed Rebecca.
“I’m sorry?”
“The mother of the girl who received Ethan’s heart.”
“I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“She came to his funeral. She gave me a letter from my son.”
“I understand, but I can’t release the recipient family’s private information.”
“Even if I know her name?”
I need Rebecca’s contact information.
“That doesn’t change our privacy rules.”
I stood up and started pacing.
“Can you call her?”
“I can pass along a request for contact.”
“How long will that take?”
“I can’t promise she’ll respond.”
She gave me a letter from my son.
“She found me. Why can’t I find her?”
“No, you don’t. She walked up to me at my son’s funeral, handed me something that
