Eat Your Pancreas

My boyfriend, Harvey Seinfeld, got diagnosed with cancer and needed a liver transplant. When I found out I was a match, I didn't think twice. Two-thirds of my liver—gone. The pain was brutal. As soon as I came to, I dragged myself to his room. Right before I walked in, I heard him laughing with his friends. "Harvey, you're a genius for coming up with such an epic revenge plan." He snorted. "If I didn't have to keep it low-key, I would've taken a kidney just for fun. "It's her fault Vivi bombed her art exam and had to study abroad. Vivi's coming back next month. That's when I'll be done with her for good."

On the day Zachary Lake stands at the pinnacle of global technology, accepting his award, I'm lying in a hospital bed, abandoned by doctors because I can't afford treatment for kidney failure. On TV, the host asks him to call the person he's most grateful for. Without hesitation, he dials my number. "Shannon, do you regret leaving me?" he asks. I clutch the astronomical medical bill in my hand, the paper crumpling beneath my fingers. Forcing a light tone, I reply, "Can you take me on as your kept woman now that you're a big deal?" On screen, his face remains expressionless as he hangs up without a word. Then, his cold voice pierces through the broadcast. "Now, I have nothing to feel grateful for." But what he doesn't know is that when he was on the brink of death years ago, I was the one who gave him my kidney.

After coming home from work, I see my favorite dishes laid out all over the table. The liquor is warmed up, and its aroma is the type that I like. But I don't feel the slightest bit grateful toward my thoughtful and gentle wife. My gaze passes through her and lands on the wall behind her. There hangs a memorial portrait of her…

My girlfriend Chloe Bennett's childhood buddy, Daniel Miller, binds himself to a transfer system. Everything he eats gets sent straight into my stomach. He creates a live stream channel and eats nonstop for 12 hours a day to rake in money. Meanwhile, I end up in the ER with acute pancreatitis. I try to explain everything to Chloe, but she just looks at me like I've lost my mind. "How could something that ridiculous exist? If food could magically transfer, nobody would starve in the world. You're just jealous he's making money from streaming." Afterward, Daniel's every live stream triggers another pancreatitis episode, sending me back to the ER until I'm barely holding on. I get tested, but the doctors can't figure out what's wrong. They even want to admit me to psych. Later, in a desperate bid to outdo another streamer, Daniel downs ten pounds of mashed potatoes at once. The overload destroys my spleen and stomach, causing massive internal bleeding that kills me. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on the day of Daniel's very first live stream. This time, I rush out and order 20 takeout dishes before him. "This time, I'm eating first."

My father died of esophageal cancer. For the final two years of his life, he could barely swallow anything. By the time he passed, he was nothing but skin and bones. The first New Year after his death, he came to my mother in a dream. "I'm starving," he said. "I just want to taste the thick-cut steak you used to make." My mother believed it without question. That very day, she pan-seared a large platter of steak and carried it to his grave. The next morning, she suffered a sudden heart attack and died on the spot. Devastated, I handled my mother's funeral together with my husband. That same night, my husband dreamed of my father as well. "Chester," he said, "I haven't eaten in so long. I want your pâté, served with some strong liquor." When my husband woke up, he bought the finest liver pâté, opened a bottle of single-malt whiskey, and went straight to the grave. However, not long after returning home, he collapsed from acute liver failure. He was rushed to the ICU and died three days later. I was on the brink of collapse myself. I left my daughter in the care of a close friend while I tried to handle the endless wave of tragedy. That evening, my daughter never came home from school. I searched everywhere, and finally, on the road to the cemetery, I found her. She was clutching a bowl of spicy stew, several grilled sausages floating in the broth. "Mom," she said, "Grandpa and I used to eat this all the time. I dreamed he said he was hungry." I finally lost it. I knocked the bowl from her hands and carried her home. That night, my father appeared in my dream once more. "I suffered so much while alive," he said. "Have some pity on me. "New Year's is coming. I want to come home for a meal. Make sure you cook fish." I woke in terror. Holding my daughter, I sat before the three framed portraits for two full days without eating or drinking. On New Year's morning, I realized she was no longer breathing. Clutched tightly in her hand was a packet of spicy dried salmon. I could not believe it. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my mother, her eyes red with worry, said she was going out to buy steak.

I had been trying to get pregnant for six months. Ernest Marino, the Don of the Marinos, would personally make me a herbal brew every day to ensure that my body was properly nurtured. He watched me tenderly as I drank the brew and whispered into my ear, "You're a good girl, Mia. You need to drink this, no matter how bad it tastes, for the sake of our baby." When my full black hair started to fall, and my gums began to bleed for no good reason, I found out that it was not medicine I was drinking. It was an immunosuppressant. Ernest had spent six months showering me with adoration, turning me into the perfect organ donor. The herbal brew I had been consuming would make it so that the recipient, his precious stepsister with uremia, would not experience rejection symptoms. He thought that I was a woman who could be treated anyway he wanted. However, he had no idea that I was a Corleone. I was from Severia's oldest, most ruthless mafia family, the Corleones.