This happened about 10 years ago: a nurse from the emergency room rushed into the operating room: “Urgently to the second operating room. A severe case! The patient is in very bad condition.” I ran there. As I entered, the team was already assembled; on the table lay a six-year-old girl. While I was dressing and sterilizing the equipment, I learned the details of the story.

A difficult situation, even critical. Urgently called the parents. It turned out the mother was type 4, and the father was type 2. Since she had a twin brother, they thought he might be a match. I went to talk to him. I saw him sitting in the corridor, crying. I told him: “Anya is seriously injured.” – “I know. She was exactly where all this happened. She was sleeping at that time.” – “Nothing is lost yet. You can save her. We just need a part of your blood.” He agreed – without even thinking. “Come with Aunt Maria to the office where she will take your blood. She’s very nice, trust her.” – “Okay, as you say. Mom, I love you! You’re the best! And you too, Dad. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

I ran to the operating room, and the boy and the nurse went to the office. The operation was successful. After that, I went to check on the boy and share the joyful news with him. He was lying under a blanket, resting. I approached and said: “You’re a real hero! You saved your sister!” – “Is she okay now?” – “Yes, absolutely!” – “And when will I die?” – “Not now, buddy… Many, many years later. When you’re old, then you’ll think about it.” At that moment, the situation seemed silly to me. Just a silly, naive question from a little boy.

Only later did I understand that he actually thought that after donating blood, he would die. That’s what he believed. And, most importantly, he was ready for it for the sake of his beloved sister. To this day, when I recall this story, I get goosebumps all over my body.