After my death, I became my mother's general teacher

It was my third year living with ALS. I decided to donate my body to science.

I called Mom, begging her to sign the consent form.

"You better actually be dying!" she snapped, her voice strained, likely mid-rounds at the hospital.

Five seconds later, the signature appeared: "Susan Miller. Don't bother me again until you're pickled in formaldehyde."

I didn't. Not until my dissected body showed up in her medical school class. Turns out, the woman who loathed me had finally lost it.

It all started when the Red Cross came for registration. My limbs were completely locked up; I couldn't even hold a pen, let alone sign the organ donation form. Seeing how young I was, the worker helped me call my next of kin for consent. The whole thing was recorded, and I was nervous as hell.

It had been almost three years since I'd seen Mom. The last time we talked, the stiffness had just reached my calves. I couldn’t walk anymore, so I’d used Mom's credit card to buy the cheapest electric wheelchair I could find. She'd called and ripped me a new one.

“Ashley! Didn’t I tell you not to call me during work?!” The background noise was chaotic; she was clearly on her rounds. I licked my dry, bitter lips.

"Mom, I... want to… donate my body… after I die. They need… family consent..."

"You better actually be dying!" she barked, scribbling her name on the e-signature pad. "Ashley Miller, don't bother me again until you're pickled in formaldehyde!"

The line went dead. The Red Cross workers exchanged awkward glances, unsure how to comfort me. I swallowed the bitterness and forced a smile.

"It's… okay. Family… approved."

I spent the next few weeks just… waiting. Online, they said once ALS reached full-body paralysis, swallowing and breathing problems weren’t far behind. I was "lucky." It only took two weeks.

After I was declared brain-dead, they rushed me into surgery. Organ harvesting – gotta be quick.

My soul left my body. I watched as my emaciated corpse lay under a white sheet, medical staff bowing their heads in silent respect. Then, a familiar figure appeared.

Mom.

She wore her white coat, a strange softness in her eyes I’d never seen before.

"Is this the new cadaver?" she asked.

"Yes, a young woman with ALS. Only 21."

"So young…" Mom's face was grim. She bowed her head towards me. "Poor girl."

All the bottled-up hurt came crashing down. Mom, do you really think I’m a “poor girl”?

She was about to leave when the lead surgeon stopped her. "Dr. Miller, aren't you researching ALS? Want to take a look and see which organs are viable?"

My ghostly self tensed. Surely, she’d recognize me once the sheet was pulled back. She'd understand it wasn't some elaborate scheme. She'd finally see… how pitiful I really was.

I saw Mom’s mouth move, forming the word "yes." Then her phone rang. Her face lit up when she saw the caller ID.

"Not today. It's my daughter's birthday."

She answered the call, a smile spreading across her face as she turned and left, oblivious to the conversation behind ...