'It's my duty': woman who asks grieving families about organ donation

Park Su-jeong, a veteran organ procurement coordinator with 13 years of experience, poses at the Korea Organ Donation Agency in Seodaemun District, Seoul, Wednesday. Korea Times photo by Park Si-mon

At 3:20 a.m., the piercing ring of a cellphone shatters the nighttime silence. For Park Su-jeong, a 43-year-old organ procurement coordinator, the volume is permanently set to maximum. She must answer within three seconds, no matter how deeply asleep she is.

When a hospital reports a patient with a devastating brain injury, Park sets out immediately, whether the call comes from Seoul or the farthest reaches of the country.

From the moment she opens the hospital doors, she compartmentalizes her emotions. Her duty is to inform devastated families that their loved one's organs could save others. Yet, she adheres to one unyielding principle — never persuade.

"Whatever decision they make, there must never be regrets left in the families' hearts," Park said. "Appealing to emotions by mentioning the beneficiary is strictly forbidden. The families of brain-dead patients should not feel like they decided something because they were caught up in the moment."

The raw grief she encounters often manifests as rage. Some lash out, telling her she is lucky they do not hit her because she is a woman. Others hurl bitter accusations, asking if she has ever lost a husband.

Park listens in silence. "That is all my duty, too," she said. She understands that the harsh words are born from uncontrollable sorrow.

When words fail, actions offer comfort. She silently removes her own coat to drape over shivering family members who have just lost a child, parent or spouse.

"A few days ago, I lent my coat to a mother who let her child go first," Park said. "When she returned it after the tissue recovery, white tear stains had dried on the sleeves. At that moment, the clothes felt so heavy."

Park has endured this emotional toll for 13 years, driven by the belief that someone must do the heavy lifting. Since 2013, she has worked at the Korea Organ Donation Agency (KODA), a state-run agency under the Ministry of Health and Welfare and the nation's exclusive agency for brain-dead organ procurement. Under the Organ Transplant Act, all domestic hospitals must notify KODA when a patient with a devastating brain injury is identified.

Her care extends beyond the operating room. For families preparing for a funeral, she provides them with pain relief patches, noting that bowing hundreds of times will hurt their knees. On the day of the funeral procession, she checks the forecast and advises them to bring extra clothes or umbrellas.

She worries most about the families who remain eerily calm.

"Those who get angry at me are rather less worrying," Park said. "The ones who concern me most are those who lack the energy even to be angry."

For these families, Park makes a routine daily call after the procurement concludes.

"I just ask what they're doing," she said. "If they say they're drinking, I tell them to make sure they eat something."

She always promises to call again the next night, hoping the expectation of a simple phone call gives them a reason to live one more day.

Organ procurement coordinator Park Su-jeong / Korea Times photo by Yun Gi-hun

Racing the clock

Securing the family's consent is only the beginning. Once authorized, coordinators must simultaneously handle the process of formal brain death determination while coordinating surgery schedules with the recipient's hospital. They must also race the clock so organs, which lose viability at varying speeds, arrive in prime condition for transplant.

Due to the high medical stakes, KODA requires coordinators to have at least three years of experience as intensive care unit or emergency room nurses. Park is a veteran nurse who previously worked in an ER and a pediatric kidney dialysis unit at a major regional hospital.

If a life can be saved, coordinators exhaust all options. They frequently plead with police and prosecutors to reconsider autopsy mandates. Park once tracked down a radiologist who was recovering on another floor after just giving birth, begging her to review a scan.

She faces logistical hurdles as well.

"Once, an emergency helicopter had to land at Boramae Park, but bollards blocked the site," Park said. "I pulled them all out to bring the ambulance in." Medical staff needed to board the helicopter without even a minute's delay to transport a heart procured at Boramae Hospital in optimal condition.

Heavy burden of pediatric trauma

Despite her many years of building emotional resilience, pediatric cases remain devastating.

Last fall, Hangang Sacred Heart Hospital, a burn specialty center, notified her of an 8-year-old patient facing imminent brain death. On the drive there, Park, a mother of young daughters herself, quietly prayed the child's family would refuse to meet her.

Standing outside the ICU, Park said, "The words 'Ah... what do I do' came out automatically. That tiny body was completely wrapped in bandages from head to toe. The whole body suffered burns."

She wept as she loaded the child into an ambulance bound for a hospital, where a doctor would pronounce the patient dead. The child donated a liver and two kidneys, saving three lives. Park still offers a silent tribute at the child's name plaque on the wall of the organ transplant center whenever she visits the hospital.

AI-generated graph shows the trend of organ donations from brain-dead donors in Korea over the past nine years.

Park finds the strength to continue by witnessing the profound altruism of ordinary people. She recalled the spouse of a patient in their 70s facing imminent brain death, a longtime recipient of government assistance, who signed the consent form to repay the government's support.

"I thought that even if there is just a handful of dirt, a sprout comes out and a flower blooms," Park said. "When people who have not had enough willingly make a good choice for others, I feel that the world is really getting better."

Years ago, Park created a personal 10-minute ritual to honor the donors. After the surgical team leaves the operating room, she stays behind to carefully wash the donor's body while playing their favorite music.

She played trot singer Na Hoon-a's "Hongsi" for an elderly fan, and Christian hymns for a devout believer. For the 8-year-old burn victim, she placed a Kinder Joy chocolate — the child's favorite snack — at the head of the bed.

"Legally, the moment a patient is pronounced brain dead is recorded as their time of death, but the real dying process that I think of is this moment of cleaning up the deceased after the organ transplant surgery ends," Park said.

"For this moment, at least, I want to treat them as the most precious in the world."

This article from the Hankook Ilbo, the sister publication of The Korea Times, is translated by a generative AI system and edited by The Korea Times.