I’ve been reflecting a lot on fear lately—how it creeps in and alters us. I can easily recall the fears of my childhood. Picture me at 12, staring down the dark, cramped drainage tunnel that stretched beneath a long driveway. The neighborhood boys dared me to crawl through, and while I wanted to impress them, fear consumed me. I barely squeezed myself into the tunnel before backing out, overwhelmed by dread. I could go on forever about the decisions I made out of fear, from my teenage years into adulthood.
Then I became a mom. The word “fear” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Gone are the days when I felt terrified as my mom closed my bedroom door; now, I find myself spending sleepless nights convincing my son there are no monsters lurking in his room. I worry about everything—being late to school, that the baby gate was left open, or that my kids swallowed something dangerous. I fear the world will be unkind to them, or worse, that I won’t be there to protect them. Add in marital strife, bills, Autism, bedwetting, and the loss of loved ones, and suddenly life feels like that tunnel again, tempting me to retreat to safety.
And then, my best friend, Lily, was diagnosed with cancer.
It all began nine months ago, on June 18, 2014, when she learned she had a rare bile duct disease called Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC). This disease eventually leads to liver failure. In August, she was diagnosed with bile duct cancer, a rarity for a 32-year-old woman. Her life quickly spiraled into hospital visits, sleepless nights filled with pain, and what I can only imagine as suffocating fear. She flew 1,000 miles to Minnesota in search of expert care, undergoing chemotherapy and intensive radiation to combat the cancer. Essentially, she bravely stepped into the tunnel.
When she returned home, hope was crushed again by infections and illness. Doctors told her that only a liver transplant could save her, but due to a severe shortage of deceased donors and her aggressive cancer, a living donor was her best option.
Then came this conversation:
Me: “Hey buddy, you know I’m going to miss you so much, right?” (Showering kisses on my little guy)
4-year-old son: “I’m going to miss you too, Mommy, could you please stop?”
Me: “No way! I need to give you enough kisses to last while I’m gone.” (Another tickle-kiss attack)
4-year-old son: “I want to go to soda town with you.”
Me: “It’s Minnesota, but there is soda there.” (Oops, I lied)
Me: “Can you promise to be super nice to your brother while I’m away?”
4-year-old son: “No.”
That was about the extent of our chats before I left to be a liver donor for Lily. The transplant was set for December 15, 2014, but things took an unexpected turn. A day before the transplant, a staging surgery revealed whether the cancer had spread. If it had, the transplant was off the table. When I saw Lily’s mom’s face after hearing the news, I felt my heart sink. As a mother, I couldn’t fathom that pain. In an instant, her chance for survival was snatched away.
Then came Lily’s reaction. She was strong, but I felt like I was back in that tunnel, frozen in disbelief. I had spent months mentally preparing myself to donate, passing every scan and test to ensure my body could handle the surgery. I was even told my liver was uniquely sized. And now, it felt like it was all for nothing.
And my boys. My son, who calls himself The Flash, was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder last year. At just two and a half, his intense emotional episodes left me bewildered. As he grows, those emotions still confuse him, often leading to moments of fear. I never expected Autism to look like this, just as I never anticipated seeing cancer so closely. I wanted to show him that I could be a superhero too, battling cancer—the ultimate villain. But now it felt like the world had robbed me of that chance.
Here’s what I’ve realized: fear is like the monster in my son’s room—it doesn’t exist once you turn on the lights. Fear skews our perception of reality. You can choose to let it engulf you or take charge and face it head-on. I no longer see fear the same way, but I also don’t blame that 12-year-old girl for not crawling through the tunnel. She simply wasn’t ready.
On December 19, 2014, I donated 55% of my liver to Lily because I love her. The lights turned on for us, and we saw that fear wasn’t lurking anymore. By what can only be described as a medical miracle, three days after the staging procedure, further pathology reports led to a reversal of the prior decision. We received an 18-hour notice that the transplant would go ahead after all. The night before the transplant was spent in the hospital, processing emotions and sharing laughter over absurd topics. I lay on my cot at 4:30 a.m., smiling as I reflected on that 12-year-old girl emerging from the tunnel. It wasn’t just about the surgery, but also about showing my children that facing fears is possible.
Two months later, I had this conversation:
Me: “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” (Driving and distracted by his blanket antics)
4-year-old son: “I’m giving Nee Nee my liver.” (Nee Nee is his blanket companion)
Me: “Oh really, why?”
4-year-old son: “Because he’s sick, and I love him.” (Well, there you go.)
So, yes, fear has been on my mind lately. What my friend and I went through over those months is hard to articulate—much like describing the feeling of holding my babies for the first time. Some experiences are simply beyond words. Lily is still fighting, but now with a new liver and a renewed sense of fearlessness.
As for me, I no longer fear being late to school. Some mornings just don’t work out. I’m not worried about meltdowns or Autism. I trust my kids will be okay. My 16-month-old son summed it up perfectly. When I returned home after over two weeks, exhausted and sore from surgery, I worried he might forget me. But when I walked in, he ran to me and gently laid his head on my healing scar.
Fear loses its power when love is present.
Throughout my life, when faced with fear, I often thought of that metal tunnel. We all encounter moments that evoke paralyzing fear, sometimes for no reason at all. My hope is that my journey as an organ donor will provide my boys with a perspective to face their own dark moments. When they find themselves in fear, I want them to remember to turn on the light and discover their own strength.
For more insights on navigating life’s challenges, check out this post about staying informed on donor insemination resources—it’s a fantastic read!