Living the piecemeal life, well into the future

I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Woodstock to renew my driver’s license last week, and I asked the young lady behind the desk a question I had never asked before: “My license says I’m an organ donor, but do organs ever ‘time out’ past a certain age?”

I thought it was a logical question to ask, because if there is such an age, I must surely be creeping up on it — if I hadn’t already slid past it.

The young lady didn’t think so, because she had issued organ donor licenses to dudes older than me. Still, I wondered if they just gave out those designations with a wink and a pat on the head, just to keep from hurting our tender geriatric feelings. Who knows what they do with old-timers’ kibbles and bits when the deal goes down?

And so I checked. Of course I did. Not because I’d be offended if the ER docs thought my offal was awful enough to discard, but just because I was curious.

And it turns out that my vintage organs may still have some fair-market value for quite a bit longer, because the oldest organ transplant on record came from Orville Allen, a World War II and Korean War vet who died on May 29, 2024. He was 98 years old, and his liver went successfully to a 72-year-old woman. Orville was otherwise healthy and active all the way to his untimely death from brain damage when he fell while picking up storm debris around his house in Missouri.

As astounding as it may be that elderly organs like Orville’s still have some time on their meter, it doesn’t seem to be all that unusual. The previous record for oldest transplant came from Cecil Lockhart of West Virginia, who died in 2021 at 95 years old. His liver was successfully transplanted—also to a woman.

Fortunately, neither of those grateful organ recipients lived in Florida or Texas, regressive states that probably have laws banning women from receiving organs from men—you know, that whole transgender kerfuffle that drives southern governors all a-twitchy with righteous outrage. I mean, y’all gotta draw the line somewheres, right?

But that’s an issue for politicians (and voters who elect them) to sort out. As far as scientists and surgeons are concerned, he/she/they organ swapping is just fine, and if there is a “timed out” date for elderly organs, it’s surely somewhere the other side of 100 years old.

Of course, the young lady at the DMV last week didn’t know any of this when I asked, but she had faith that my gears and pulleys probably still had some mileage left on them, so she saw to it that my new license would still include membership in that parts-swapping club.

We chatted as she typed my vital information into her computer, and I told her that more than a decade ago I had stood in that very spot at the DMV counter and wrote a song.

It started when the lovely young lady behind the counter way back then looked me in the eye and said: “Would you like to donate your organs?” It was the most intimate request any woman had ever made to me. After all, men spend most of their lives longing for a woman to express interest in just one of their organs, and here was this lovely minx who wanted all of mine.

It was love at first sight, and I started writing an organ donor’s love song on the spot. The song was mostly finished by the time I got home with my new driver’s license in my pocket, with that lovely donor’s mark on the front, as red as a Valentine heart.

I was proud of my song because of its honesty. Hundreds of other love songs say “I give my heart to you,” but they don’t mean it. Well, mine does.

When I told the young lady behind the counter last week about the organ donor’s love song I wrote at that spot so long ago, she smiled—but I was a little offended that she didn’t ask me to sing it for her. Then again, the DMV was crowded, so I guess that was for the best.

But still…. She could have asked for a verse or a chorus, even if only as a wink and a pat on the head for an old guy whose inner bits still have at least a couple decades before they hit their freshness date. If she ever needs one of my organs, I hope she gets my well-marinated liver. That’ll serve her right.

But I know you’re the curious sort. Who else would stick with the swill I write so far into the story? So I’ll share a bit of my song with you.

My organ donor’s love song is called “I’ve Gone to Pieces.” It’s too long to print in its entirety here, with five verses and a chorus that repeats several times, but here is the bridge just before the last verse:

“So go ahead and call me strange, to parcel out my parts for other folks to rearrange. Yeah, go ahead and call me nuts — but if you need my colon you can stick it up your butt.”

And with a lyric as tender and giving as that, I’m sure you can imagine how sweet and touching the rest of my love song is.

TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com

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