Atoms moving in the void—this is the metaphysical truth of life. That endless infinite place we call space is the very fabric of our existence. But is there really nothing there? People used to think that if you took all the air out of an area you would be left with a genuinely empty vacuum. But then quantum theory came along and proved that empty space isn’t really empty at all because this “nothing” contains something. Science has understood this to be a fact for decades. Quantum mechanics is a field of physics that studies the laws which govern very small things like atoms or nuclei. Classical physics, on the other hand, describes the laws which govern very large objects: people, cars, airplanes, jets, spaceships, planets, stars, solar systems, galaxies—you name it. Here’s why quantum mechanics rocked the very foundation of scientific understanding: the laws which govern very small objects, the minutiae, don’t apply to large objects like me and you. On the quantum scale atoms can pass through lead and can act like waves or particles or both at the same time. They flash into and out of existence for moments so fleeting it’s hard to say that they even happened at all. But they are there. Always. Bursting into and out of existence every nanosecond in the empty space all around us; a divine display of fireworks invisible to the naked eye.

-Excerpt from “Wonders of the Quantum” by Patrick Laster

The lights in the room were glaring. Bright, florescent lights gave the room an unreal quality. Like looking at an HD television for the first time, it all looks too real.  The smell of industrial strength disinfectant filled the room making the air thick and heavy. I’ve always hated being in hospitals because they make me feel exposed, raw. The whitewashed walls, the bleached lighting, the blinding glares on the waxed floors. I always felt like a specimen under a microscope like there was no part of me that was hidden from them. They could see every imperfection on my face. They could even see inside of me, things I couldn’t even see.

“The doctor’s on his way in right now dear,” the nurse said, poking her head in the door. “Sorry for the wait.”

“It’s no problem,” I said, smiling.

She paused as if to say something before quickly ducking out of the room. Whether it was pity or empathy that was radiating behind her eyes I couldn’t tell. She was a good nurse, the maternal type to whom nurturing came naturally. She made me feel comfortable throughout the entire process. Never questioned my motives or gave me those cutting, judgmental glances that I got in the administrative office when I was completing the paperwork. She had deep, caring eyes that did most of the talking for her. While she was recording my height and weight, taking my temperature, oxygen saturation levels and heart rate she never asked questions about why I was there in the first place. And it’s not that I think she was indifferent to me either. She seemed to go out of her way to make sure I was comfortable while she took my vitals for the doctor.

“I’m going to do this so that you experience as little pain as possible,” she said as she slipped the needle into my vein to draw blood.

Gaudy department store artwork checkered the walls, out of place and ignored. The wax sanitation paper crinkled as I shifted on the edge of the observation table. The doctor gave a few rushed knocks on the door and entered before I even had a chance to say come in. What’s the point of knocking if you’re not going to wait for me to say come in? Was the knock a courtesy so that I get an extra few seconds to wrap up whatever I’ve been doing for the last hour to pass the time? That way I can give him the impression that I’ve been sitting patiently in silence, staring at the door waiting for his arrival. Are physicians really that desperate for an ego boost?

He was wearing light green scrubs and his surgical mask dangled loosely around his neck like dog tags. He sat down on the rolling stool and flipped open a chart, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. This chart presumably filled with my “vital statistics”–those things which will determine the decisions the doctor makes on my behalf–only tell part of my story. Those measurements and numbers are arbitrary when viewed independent from the whole. Behind those numbers are an entire person with thoughts and motivations and loves and hates. The fact that the doctor seemed indifferent to the latter only added to my anxiety. Every so often he would look up from the chart and give me a once over as if he were trying to determine if what was written in the chart was correct by eyeballing it.

“We’re very grateful that you came forward,” the doctor said. “You’re performing a very noble service. Voluntarily, I must add. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” I said. “It’s funny, when I first thought—”

“We’re also very fortunate that your blood type is O negative,” he said. “It’s a very rare blood type. Are you aware of that?”

“Uh… Yeah. So I’ve been told,” I said.

“It’s really quite amazing. A complete stranger could accept any form of major tissue from you, and their body has more than a 90% chance of accepting it. It’s a very rare blood type, you know, just magnificent. We really hit the jackpot with you.”

His excitement grew as he talked more about my blood type. Not even five minutes in the room with this quack and he’s already shown me that he’s more interested in my blood than me as a human being. Look at him, gesturing wildly with his hands, eyes as big as dinner plates, as fascinated as a kid who managed to catch a Pegasus in a homemade trap. I wondered if he even knew my name or if he referred to me as “my O negative patient” to his doctor friends. I couldn’t listen to him drone on and on about my blood any longer. It was making me squirm.

“So how many of these procedures have you done? Exactly how difficult is it?” I asked.

“The incision is the easiest part,” he said. “It’s everything before that which determines the success of the surgery. It’s all in the preparation.”

“How invasive is the procedure?” I asked.

He let out a laugh that filled the entire room in an instant. This guy definitely wasn’t making any sort of effort to befriend me. But then again why would he? His job didn’t require that we become close any more than a mechanic needs to become friends with the car he’s using for spare parts.

“I know it’s extremely invasive,” I said backpedaling trying to make myself seem more informed than I really was. “What I meant was how will I feel after the surgery? Will I be in constant pain from the… removal?”

“Well, due to the extent of cutting that I’ll be doing, there will be extreme tenderness and swelling around the incision site, no doubt,” he said. “Some internal bleeding possibly. But, honestly, you’ll be so drugged up that you won’t feel a thing.”

That wasn’t the type of reassurance I was looking for, but I was there with a purpose, and I knew that it would be unpleasant from the start. Bravery is required to accomplish noble deeds. So much so that it makes you look borderline reckless, borderline insane. But isn’t that what makes a hero a hero? Someone who can skirt that line between brave and crazy, impossible and possible?

“How soon can we get started?” I asked.

“ASAP. If it was up to me we’d go ahead with the surgery today, but we’ve got to get you through all the pre-surgery examinations. You wouldn’t buy a car without taking a look under the hood first, right? Right? Am I right?”

This must have been his attempt at humor. I was less than amused, and it showed on every inch of my face.

“Ahem,” he said clearing his throat. “To answer your question: the quicker we get moving, the greater chance the recipient has for survival.”

I’m not sure what bothered me more, his attempt at humor when discussing cutting me open or the way he referred to Meghan as “the recipient.” Did he even know her name? How about her middle name? Or her favorite color? Or her favorite song? I know those things. She’s the whole reason I’m here.

“One last question for you doctor,” I said. “What are my chances of getting a donor for myself after this is all said and done?”

He put his hands up, waving the question away with his hands. “You’ll have to talk to the social worker about that,” he said.

The empty space that fills our universe plays a constant tug of war with all the things in it. At the subatomic level, energy can be borrowed or exchanged on very short time scales. This makes the vacuum a very violent place. Although you and I, day to day, are unable to perceive the events with the naked eye, empty space is a froth of buzzing energy like molten metal. To understand the shrapnel flying out of these subatomic explosions, you have to look at the universe differently. You have to view the most fundamental building blocks of matter as not being solid at all. In the quantum world, when you observe particles, you observe them in a state that looks more like a wave than a particle. On the quantum scale, when we smash these infinitesimally small points into one another, waves spread out from a central point instead of singular particles jettisoning off into a given direction. It’s just like how throwing a stone into a pond creates ripples across the surface. Further proof that everything in the universe is interconnected. Nothing is ever new. Everything in the universe is just a clever rearrangement of atoms.

– Excerpt from “Wonders of the Quantum” by Patrick Laster

The social worker wanted me to meet her in Meghan’s room, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to see her lying in a bed half dead connected to tubes and machines like some sort of cyborg. I’d rather remember all of the little quirks that rounded out her personality. Like how much of a reckless driver she was, steering with her knees while texting and lighting a cigarette at the same time. Or the face she’d make when she was horny, biting her lip while tilting her head down, looking up at me with those stunning eyes; yellows and greens and browns all swirled together like an abstract painting. Or how she laughed with her whole body–head thrown back, every perfect tooth showing, hands rising to her face while she stomped her feet. Or how she could pull her hair back into a perfectly centered ponytail quicker than I could put a shirt on.

Back when we were together she had a habit of whispering the words “I’m so in love with you” when she thought I wasn’t listening. She’d say it so faintly, just below a whisper, that I would only catch her in the act every once in a blue. But those times I did catch her were the happiest moments of my life. Even though she didn’t want me to hear, and I had to feign ignorance when I did, it meant the world to me knowing that if even for the briefest moment she felt that way about me. Moments such as these, so short lived we tend to forget them right after they happen, were never lost on me. I cherished every one of them. Much of what’s in the universe only exists for very short flashes of time. Why should love be any different?

I heard the faint echo of heels approaching from down the hall at a deliberate, determined pace. The social worker. She sighed when she made it into the waiting room where I was sitting. “Can’t even bring yourself to look at her can you?” she asked. I said nothing, electing to stare at my feet.

“Have you seen her at all since she was admitted?” she asked. I shook my head.

“Jesus Christ,” she scoffed. She walked over and sat in the chair opposite mine. “Look, I’m a really busy woman. I’m responsible for the admission and discharge of close to 100 patients a day. So, you’re going to have to forgive me for a little good ol’ fashioned plain speaking. I believe in getting to the point.”

I looked up and saw her face for the first time. She looked exhausted; the face of a woman burdened by the problems of others, her patients, her coworkers, her superiors, her husband, her children. They all unload their problems on her, burdens which she graciously accepts and carries with the cold, stoic nobility of a Viking. She gave off an aura equal parts concerned mother and exhausted triathlon runner.

“I think you’re doing this for one of two reasons,” she said. “One, you feel that because you two broke up, your life is over, and now you’re giving up the most romantic way you could think of. Or two, you feel by doing this, Meghan will fall in love with you again. Either way, it’s just wrong. You’re being selfish by giving up on the people that really love you, and you’re a fool to think that this will bring her back to you.”

“Trust me. I don’t expect this to bring her back to me,” I said.

“So, why are you doing it then?”

“Everyday eighteen people die awaiting an organ donation. I’m just trying to do a good deed and help save someone’s life, that’s all.”

“And that someone just happens to be your ex-girlfriend,” she said laughing. “Those are some pretty riveting statistics you just threw at me there, by the way. It must have taken you all of five minutes to find that on Wikipedia. Well, I’ve got some more numbers for you, Mr. Laster, facts to consider, if you will. Live organ donation, especially from a non-family member, is extremely rare. And anytime it happens, it always makes us raise an eyebrow.  I just want to make sure you’re aware of the gravity of what you’re choosing to undertake. The most common live organ donations are kidneys. That’s because the surgeries have become less invasive, and a person can live with just one kidney. The next most common live donation is liver donation. People can donate sections of their liver, and their liver will regenerate and regain full function. It grows back. Even less rare are lung and pancreas donations, and that’s because those organs do not regenerate. The donor would have to live with those organs performing reduced functions. Those types of live donations are extremely rare. Extremely.”

She sat forward in her chair and waited for me to make eye contact with her before she continued. “And then there’s what you want to do. It’s… It’s unusual to say the least. I mean do you really know what you’re signing up for?

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to save her life.”

She slouched in her chair and shook her head, defeated. “I guess you’ve convinced yourself that what you’re doing is noble, but, trust me, it’s not. I’ve done my research on you, Mr. Laster, and you’ve got a promising life ahead of you. You’re set to graduate this spring with a PhD in Physics. I actually read your dissertation, and it’s quite impressive—brilliant, actually—which is what makes your decision all the more baffling. Look, you’re a smart guy. All of your professors speak highly of you. You’re destined for a long career in academia. Why throw it all away for a girl? A girl that wants nothing to do with you. Don’t do this. You’re killing yourself, that’s what you’re doing. Do yourself a favor and just forget about her.”

“That’s the crazy thing about love, I guess. When you love someone—I mean, really love them—you can’t stop loving them,” I said. “Sure, you might get mad at them, resent them, maybe even hate that person, but all of those things are just thrown on top of the love, like scars on your body. The love is still there no matter how tainted it becomes through the passage of time. The love remains. And you can’t just take it off. No more than I can ask you to stop wearing your own skin.”

“You know she won’t care that you did this for her,” she said. “She’ll have no idea what you sacrificed for her. Don’t you care about that? It’ll all be in vain. I hope you realize that.”

“So much of the universe is unseen to us,” I said. “Human interactions are no different. The bulk of any relationship is composed of events or actions that we can’t see; the secrets that we keep from our partners, a piece of our past that we fail to disclose, the emotions that we leave unspoken and suppressed, the little white lies that conceal the truth. These things, though insignificant and overlooked they may be, form the foundation of our relationships with each other. The trick to truly loving someone is coming to terms with that. She doesn’t have to acknowledge what I’m doing. I’ll know, and that’s all that matters.”

She let out a long sigh and shrugged her shoulders before rising from her seat. “Have it your way, hun,” she said as she rose to leave. She left as abruptly as she arrived.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said, calling after her.

“I didn’t give it,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

There’s a phenomenon in particle physics referred to as quantum entanglement. After two particles collide in the right conditions, they become forever linked. If you change the properties of one, you immediately change the properties of the other. Researchers found that even if particles were separated by miles they would still show this effect. Changing the mass of one entangled particle in New York would immediately change the mass of the other entangled particle in L.A.; two entities communicating through the void of space. Einstein referred to this phenomenon as “spooky action at a distance.” One way to think of it is to pretend that two people buy a pair of gloves. They place one glove inside one box and the other glove inside another box. One person takes a box and travels to one side of the universe. The other person takes the other box and travels to the other side of the universe. The first person opens their box and finds the left glove. Upon doing this, they know immediately that the other person is going to open their box and find the right glove. They don’t need to call the other person on the telephone. Nor do they need to see inside the second box to confirm this fact. The gloves are, in a sense, entangled. One glove can tell you all you need to know about the other.

– Excerpt from “Wonders of the Quantum” by Patrick Laster

Most of us fear death. We believe in it with such conviction because we’re told our whole lives that we’re going to die; that it’s an inevitable fact of life that we have to accept. We associate ourselves with the body, and we know that the body does in fact die, so it’s understandable why so many people accept death as an eventuality. But is it really? One of the most fundamental axioms of science is that energy can never die. It can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed. Why can’t this law apply to our conscious brain, which is just a twenty-watt battery of energy? One golden rule of quantum physics is that certain observations cannot be predicted absolutely. The very act of observing something changes it ever so slightly. Instead, there is a range of possible outcomes each with different probabilities. What’s the probability that our essence can exist after the death of our bodies, in a space outside of time that we are unable to perceive in our current state? I don’t fear death any more than one should fear moving; the only thing that changes is your point of reference. After all, the universe wastes nothing. Everything we see consists of particles, which have for all extensive purposes, always existed and always will.

I’ve always believed that people could experience phenomenon on the macro level that are similar to those which occur on the quantum level. For instance, shouldn’t it be possible for two people to become entangled, where observing one person tells you all you need to know about the other? It happens all the time that people become so in sync with one another that they can communicate without speaking and complete each other’s sentences. Twin siblings frequently state that they can feel pain that the other is experiencing even though they’re miles apart.

Although our time together was brief–just as the impact between two subatomic particles lasts mere nanoseconds–the collision between me and Meghan, like most short lived love affairs, was a violent flash of brilliance that had a lasting impact on me. Afterwards, I felt linked to her in a way. Long after we stopped being a “we,” she’s always felt slightly there, influencing my life in some obscure way. That’s what made my decision to risk my life in order to help her such an easy one.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from particle physics it’s that the most awe inspiring, life-changing events can happen in the blink of an eye. The entire universe came into existence fractions of a second after the big bang. Time and time again, I’ve seen that the most beautiful things in our universe are also the most fragile and short lived. It should come as no surprise that love abides by this same law.

When I arrive at the hospital the day of the operation everyone greets me like I’m a rock star. They show me to my room where I’ll be recovering, and it’s already full of flowers and get well cards. I feel like a hero. I hop on the stretcher. They sedate me slightly, strip me, shave me, and then wheel me out. We wander, what feels like an eternity, through an endless labyrinth of humming white walls before finally arriving at the operating room. They slowly lower the mask over my mouth and nose, and that’s when they knock me out good; it’s like I’m sitting on top of a train that’s just entered a tunnel, and as I look back at the entrance, I can see the circle of daylight growing smaller and smaller as we barrel into the black abyss…

So what’s it feel like not having a heart? Well for starters your chest feels hollow, cavernous. Something essential is missing, and your body aches in a way to let you know as much, like the ghost sensations of long severed limbs that amputees feel. Gravity is more intense yet softer, like being held down by hundreds of pounds of feathers. The meds make me feel like I’m lying at the bottom of a murky lake. I can just make out the light at the surface. It wavers and ripples, coming into and out of focus as faces appear intermittently across the surface. I can make out people moving about in the background, amorphous blobs of color. Occasionally, they say something, but I can hardly make it out from this depth.

“Patrick,” a voice calls. The lake’s surface shivers. The doctor’s face inflates, shrinks, and then folds into itself. “We’re still working on getting a heart for you… shortage in the country… doing the best we can…” Time dissolves, becomes meaningless; a forgotten relic from another life. Alone in the dark. Occasional footsteps. The flip of a light switch. Forever the droning of machines, like the moaning of whales. The doctor’s face again looming over the lake miles wide. “It’s Meghan,” he says.  “She’s not responding how we hoped she would… it seems the heart just isn’t enough… not doing well.”

That was the last time I saw the doctor. He hasn’t been around since. How much time has gone by? Weeks? Months? Years? There’s no way to know all the way down here. Meghan is long dead. No one has told me, but I know it. It’s my heart after all. When it ceases to beat, I know it. I have no regrets, though. It was easier this way, much more appealing than spending the rest of my life beating myself up for not having the courage to take the plunge. It’s just a piece of muscle. Why are people always so scared to part with it?

These days, the nurse comes in often to keep me company and water the flowers in my room. The same nurse who did my pre-surgery examinations. She has a peaceful radiance, which always manages to cut through the haze of painkillers and medications. One day, she tells me a story: “You know, when Meghan died, we managed to save your heart. There was nothing wrong with it. It was perfectly fine. Her body just didn’t accept it. Initially, the surgical team was going to give it back to you, but then they heard about a girl, a two year old, in the next county who was sure to die without a heart transplant.”

At that, she held a picture close to my face, and I could just make out the rippling photo of an almond-skinned toddler with a gorgeous head full of curls, like someone dumped a bucket of curly fries on her head. She was beaming into the camera, radiating the eternal happiness of childhood despite the tubes protruding from her chest. She was beautiful.

“Anyway, they decided to give your heart to her, instead. She’s a great kid with her whole life ahead of her. And just the cutest thing you’d ever see. Not that it changes anything for you, but I thought that you might want to know that. I figured deep down that’s what you’d have wanted anyway, right?”

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My thoughts drift back to memories of Meghan and how we used to sleep draped over one another, fitting together as perfectly as jigsaw pieces. In this particular memory, it’s the dead of night; that time when the bats are done feeding, but the birds aren’t awake just yet. She’s got her head rested on my chest, and I watch it rise and fall with each breath I take. When I look down at the foot of the bed, it’s hard to tell where I end and she begins underneath the covers. I can remember during that time being acutely aware of the fact that the bliss I was feeling would not—could not—last. This was one of those interactions destined for brevity. Very similar to the events observed in particles accelerators; two entities moving so fast they become one for just an instant, creating a connection greater than themselves.

I kiss her forehead and tell her that I love her. I preferred telling her that way. I’ve always felt that those words are thrown around carelessly. You can’t constantly tell someone that you love them without the words losing some degree of their meaning before they become watered down into an automated response. They should be kept preserved and protected only being brought out for use during those times when you mean it the most, like in the middle of the night when only her soul will hear it.

A new event invades the memory. A pinpoint of light opens in the ceiling, and I see it receding through the roof and into the starless night sky. I feel myself rising off the bed, suddenly weightless. I strain for the light with every ounce of strength left in me; reaching into the void of empty space toward whatever unseen wonders await me there.

***

Kyle Holland is a single father and aspiring writer living in Tampa, FL. He spends his free time watching Adventure Time with his daughter, Aiden, and getting knee deep in all manner of awesomeness with his muse, Ivy. When he’s not doing either of those things, he can be found in a dimly lit room hunched over a laptop mumbling to himself as he writes for hours on end. He couldn’t be happier.