Lately, I have been contemplating the nature of fear—how it manifests and transforms us throughout our lives. As I reflect on my childhood, I can vividly recall instances of fear. I picture myself as a 12-year-old, staring nervously into a small drainage tunnel beneath a long driveway. Encouraged by my friends to crawl through, I succumbed to the urge to impress them, only to be overwhelmed by fear as I squeezed into the darkness. Ultimately, I retreated, just as I had entered. This pattern of allowing fear to dictate my choices continued into my teenage years and beyond.
Then I became a parent. The term fear hardly suffices to describe the overwhelming emotions that arise. The childhood fears of being alone in my room transformed into sleepless nights spent reassuring my son that there are no monsters lurking in the shadows. I found myself anxious about dropping him off at school on time, leaving the baby gate open, or even worrying about unexplainable rashes. The fear that the world would be unkind to my children, or that I wouldn’t be able to protect them, consumed me. The weight of marital challenges, financial pressures, Autism, and family health issues intensified this feeling—making life seem insurmountable, akin to being trapped in that dark tunnel once again.
Then came the life-altering news: my best friend, Sarah, was diagnosed with cancer.
It all began nine months ago on June 18, 2014, when she was diagnosed with Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC), a rare bile duct disease that ultimately leads to liver failure. In August, she received a devastating diagnosis of bile duct cancer, an uncommon affliction for a woman of just 32. Our lives became engulfed in hospital visits and sleepless nights filled with her tears and pain. It was a harrowing journey as she traveled over 1,000 miles to Minnesota for chemotherapy and radiation, seeking a glimmer of hope against the cancer that invaded her body. Sarah’s bravery in facing this daunting path reminded me of my own childhood fears.
As she navigated the darkest times, I felt compelled to offer my support. The only viable treatment was a liver transplant, but due to a significant shortage of deceased donors and the aggressive nature of her cancer, a living donor was her best chance.
A Conversation That Stands Out
One conversation stands out vividly:
Me: “Sweetheart, I’m going to miss you while I’m away.” (Showering my son with kisses)
My 4-year-old son, Max: “I’ll miss you too, but can you stop?”
Me: “I need to give you enough kisses to last while I’m gone!” (Tickling him)
Max: “I want to go with you!”
Me: “I’m heading to Minnesota, but they don’t have soda there.” (A small fib—there’s soda there!)
Me: “Can you promise to be extra sweet to your brother while I’m gone?”
Max: “No.”
These exchanges were typical as I prepared to donate part of my liver to Sarah on December 15, 2014. However, the day before the transplant, a staging surgery revealed that her cancer had spread, effectively disqualifying her from receiving my liver. I was devastated, unable to grasp the magnitude of what that moment meant for her future.
As a mother, I could only imagine the emotions Sarah’s mother experienced as they delivered the news. Yet, amidst the heartbreak, Sarah maintained her composure. At that moment, I felt as if I was back in that tunnel, frozen in disbelief. I had prepared physically and mentally for months, eager to prove my love and support.
My son, Max, had also faced his own challenges last year when he was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. Watching him grapple with emotional distress, I saw his strength akin to a superhero’s. I had hoped to share my own courageous battle against cancer with him, to show him that fear can be conquered.
In a surprising turn of events, just three days after the initial setback, new pathology reports revealed that the cancer had not spread after all. This rare occurrence allowed us just 18 hours to prepare for the transplant. The night before the surgery was filled with laughter and emotional reflection as we processed the whirlwind of events together.
On December 19, 2014, I donated 55% of my liver to Sarah, driven by love and a newfound perspective on fear. This time, the light illuminated our path, banishing the shadows.
Reflecting two months later, I asked Max what he was doing in the car.
Max: “I’m giving Nee Nee my liver.” (Nee Nee is his beloved blanket)
Me: “Oh really? Why?”
Max: “Because he’s sick and I love him.”
It’s fascinating how fear has evolved in my life. Through this journey, I’ve discovered that fear resembles a monster in the dark—nonexistent when the lights are on. My friend continues to fight, but now with a renewed sense of strength and fearlessness.
As for me, I no longer dread being late for school drop-offs or fear my son’s meltdowns. I have come to accept the uncertainties of parenting, knowing that love transcends fear. When I returned home after donating my liver, my youngest son, who had been too young to grasp the situation, ran to me, laying his head on my healing scar.
Through this experience, my hope is that my children will find the courage to face their own fears, remembering that the strength they seek is always within them.
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Summary
This narrative reflects on the profound impact of fear and love through the lens of organ donation. The author shares her journey of donating part of her liver to a close friend battling cancer, illustrating the tumultuous emotions faced as a mother and friend. Ultimately, the experience reshapes her understanding of fear, emphasizing the importance of courage and love in overcoming life’s darkest moments.
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