DNR

By Georgia Olson

Look, this is the way it happened to me: The first thing I noticed was the pain in my neck.  

“Flex your fingers,” said the doctor, but they wouldn’t move. “And again.” By the third try, I got them to twitch. She said that was normal. It was also, apparently, normal that I had to learn to walk again.  

I was confused, mostly. I felt weird. And everything looked different. But I couldn’t ask any questions—I mean, I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t. You know how when you talk you feel your throat vibrate? Go on, try. I didn’t feel it. Anything at all. It got really bad when they were wheeling me out through the hospital and I caught a glimpse out the window. There was a city out there, but it didn’t look like any city I knew. The buildings were so sleek and silver and tall, and there were things with people in them flying around—flying—in orderly rows.  

Do you know what I was trying to say? I was moving my mouth to ask, Where am I? Who are you? What’s happened to me? Why can’t I move? I was trying to leap out of the wheelchair and book it down the hallway as fast as I could. Then at some point, I realized my hands looked strange. That’s something you don’t think about much, really, whether or not you’d notice if your hands were different. Let me tell you: you’ll notice. You can’t quite name it at first, if it’s the proportion, the color, the markings, or the way the skin lies on the knuckles, but you just know.  

They took me into a room where my parents were waiting, but they looked older than I remembered. They started sobbing the moment they saw me, threw themselves across the room to touch me and hold me. I still couldn’t move. Then, after a while, they both got on their knees in front of me with tears still in their eyes. “Listen, honey,” they said. “Something incredible has happened.” They told me that I died, many, many years ago, and today I was back.  

But then they said, “We’re sorry. The nitrogen was too expensive. We couldn’t afford to freeze the rest of us.” At that point, Ma unwrapped her scarf and Pa rolled down his collar, and they revealed thin scars running all the way around their necks. “But it’s okay,” they continued, and then they brought out a mirror so I could see I had the same line where, as they explained, my head had been attached to my new body. “We’re all together now.” 

My voice never came back. A few days after I woke up, they took me back to the hospital. I was trying to say no, please God no. We found out whoever had done my “procedure” was sloppy and bisected my larynx. The doctors said I was one of the oldest, from a time when they were still figuring it out, so these things were to be expected. They said they “owed me a lot” for my “contributions to the scientific community.” They gave me a voice box and configured it—with my parents’ input—to the way they think I sounded before I died.  

Everything else is, apparently, normal. It takes some time for the brain and body to figure each other out. Ma got over it after only a few days, and Pa took a couple weeks. It’s normal for “resurrectables” to be confused after they wake up. We all go through “orientation” as soon as possible to “help us through” those feelings. 

“This is normal,” they tell you. “Everything you’re experiencing is normal.” And they get all smiley and look at you like you’re some sweet, dumb kid. “The important thing to remember is that this body is yours. It has always been yours.” They tell us to think of it like an organ transplant, that all the bodies come from willing donors—No, don’t interrupt me, I know it’s not true—and they never say it outright, but they clearly expect you to be grateful.  

Look, I can’t even talk to my parents about it, okay? I tried. We were at dinner and I asked, “Don’t you wonder?”  

And they said, “Wonder what?”  

“Don’t you ever wonder whose body they gave you?”  

And they laughed. Like it was a joke. 

I was always kind of sickly. In and out of hospitals all my life. It made it hard to stay in school, but I really tried. I liked studying. I always brought my textbooks when I knew it was going to be a long stay. Learning gave me a reason to fight. Because even when it was at its worst, I could read some obscure article on gender dynamics in Japanese taiko drumming, or something, and I’d think about how full of life the world was, and how even if I studied for the rest of my life, I’d only scratch the surface. I thought that was so wonderful. 

After one of my stays, Ma and Pa sat me down and told me they had wonderful news. “We’ve been talking to some new doctors,” said Ma. She was failing not to smile. “And they say you don’t have to be afraid of dying anymore. None of us do.” She held Pa’s hand in her left, mine in her right. “They’re going to let us live forever.” They did this kind of thing all the time, joining new churches, talking to quacks, trying to find meaning in my pain. I didn’t think anything of it.  

The last time I was in the hospital, I was just very tired. The last time I was lucid, I was alone. It was an odd feeling when it happened, like a heavy curtain slowly covering me. It was very much like falling asleep. I don’t remember where I went, all those years, and the harder I try the less I manage. But I can tell you it was warm. Pleasantly warm. And it felt very safe. And then it was gone. And the world I loved had lived and died without me.  

They keep telling me she was the best match; I don’t want to believe it’s true. The hands are wrong. The lower half of our neck is a different color. Even the shape of the feet is off. But they keep telling me she’d be happy for me. That she’d be proud to know her body went to a “good kid.” But they’re wrong. They’re either wrong or they’re lying, and I know it. 

How could I not know? It’s written all over me: “DO NOT RESURRECT.”  

So I need you to tell me I’m not crazy. Look, here. They tried to laser it off before I woke up, but you can still read it: “Remember me,” it says on her arm. “I didn’t die for you,” up over the shoulder. On her stomach, right above the hips it says, “Fuck you, Ressie!!!” with three exclamation marks, so I really know how she feels.  

I don’t know what life is like out here, okay? I’ve tried. They won’t tell me. “Unauthorized” media gets thrown out. If I ask too many questions they shut off the voice box. They want me to believe they fixed the world while I was sleeping, but she’s telling me they failed. I know you’re the person who did the tattoos—look, it says so right here—so please, I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t have any say in who I got, and I’ll leave you alone after, I promise, but you’re the only person I know who can help me.  

Can you tell me who she was?  

Can you tell me who we are now?

Georgia Olson is a Music and Creative Writing double major from Seattle, currently in her junior year. In her work she is curious about how people interact with each other, with the world around them, and with themselves. Outside of writing she enjoys knitting/crocheting, playing video games, and learning about niche topics.