The pain is excruciating. Each procedure leaves fresh wounds across my back, scars layering over scars. I lose count of how many times they open me up. Four harvests. Seven. Nine. The anesthesia stops working properly, but I tell them to keep going anyway.
When Elena sees what I’ve done, she weeps. “You selfish bastard!” she sobs, her thin fingers tracing the bandages across my spine. I’m lying on my stomach because sitting up is impossible, and she’s perched on the edge of the bed, her IV pole rattling as she shakes with rage. “You’re carving yourself apart and it won’t change anything.”
We argue about it, and she gets so angry that she won’t let me feed her her dinners anymore. But she’s right: The stem cells don’t take. Her body rejects them the way it’s rejected every other intervent
