First, he’s packed and put on ice like a seabass. Then he’s put in a state of vitrification and becomes a non-crystalline amorphous solid like a beetle trapped in glass. Seeing him during this time is like visiting someone in a coma, except I can’t touch him because there’s a risk of shattering.
For one month a year, his body is reheated and drained of all preservation liquid. This is when the science happens and I find out what it means for him to have donated his still-living body to science. There are educational posters about it on all the walls. They describe the process beautifully, using metaphors about butterflies to great effect.
My mother and I visit him daily during the month. We watch specialists poke at him, inject him with diseases, and test him with trial-stage medications. One experiment goes wrong and he loses a foot.
In exchange for his body, we’re paid generously. We can afford organic groceries now. My dad also receives a retirement fund and a promise that if he dies before his term is up, our family will get a payout. This happens in about 35% of cases.
I’ll be forty when he’s warm again and when I imagine our reunion we’re looking at each other with similarly lined faces. His doctor tells me to be thankful, the facility says we should be proud, and after several years his body helps them find a cure. His sacrifice is for you they say, and so I wear my gratefulness as best I can and when the doctor turns away I touch my father’s fingers. They’re soft, like the inside of a slipper, and when I leave I feel his handprint on me and bring it home where all the pieces left behind live.