Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the nature of fear and how it shapes our lives. I can easily recall my childhood fears. I vividly remember standing at the entrance of a narrow drainage tunnel beneath a long driveway at the age of 12, my heart racing as neighborhood boys dared me to crawl through it. Eager to impress them, I inched forward but was quickly overwhelmed by terror, forcing myself to retreat. I could write endlessly about the choices made from a place of fear throughout my adolescence and into adulthood.
Then, I became a parent. The word “fear” barely scratches the surface of what that experience entails. The fears I once felt as a child, confined to my room as my mother shut the door, transformed into nights spent assuring my son that there were no monsters lurking in the dark. I became consumed with worries: Was I dropping him off at school on time? Did I leave the baby gate open? Had he swallowed something dangerous or developed an unexplained rash? The fear that the world might one day be unkind to my children or that something more sinister could happen loomed large. Add to that the challenges of marital strife, bills, Autism, bedwetting, illness, and loss, and I found myself back in that tunnel, longing for the safety of the past.
And then my best friend received a life-altering diagnosis.
Nine months ago, on June 18, 2014, she was told she had Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC), a rare bile duct disease that leads to liver failure. By August, she learned she had bile duct cancer—a shocking diagnosis for a 32-year-old woman. Her life quickly became a series of hospital visits, enduring pain that would leave anyone feeling suffocated by fear. She traveled 1,000 miles to Minnesota for advanced treatment, embracing the darkness of the tunnel head-on. Unfortunately, her hope soon dimmed, overshadowed by infections and setbacks. The only solution was a liver transplant, but due to a severe shortage of deceased donors and her aggressive cancer, a living donor was her best chance for survival.
And then there was this moment:
Me: “Hey buddy, you know I’m going to miss you a lot, right?” (showering my 4-year-old son with kisses)
4-year-old son: “I’m going to miss you too, Mommy. Could you please stop that?”
Me: “No! I need to give you enough kisses to last while I’m gone.” (I launched into a full tickle-kiss attack)
4-year-old son: “I want to go to soda town with you. Please take me there!”
Me: “The state is Minnesota, but there’s no soda there.” (A little white lie; they did have soda)
Me: “Will you please be extra nice to your brother while I’m away?”
4-year-old son: “No.”
That pretty much summed up my conversations with him before I set off to Minnesota to donate my liver to my best friend. The transplant was set for December 15, 2014, but the day before, a staging surgery was necessary to check if the cancer had spread. If it had, the transplant would be off the table—forever. I witnessed the moment her mother learned that the cancer had indeed spread. As a mother myself, I cannot fathom how devastating that news must have been. Then I saw my friend’s reaction; she was brave. I felt frozen in disbelief, having mentally prepared myself to be a donor for months. I had passed every test and scan. I was even told my liver was uniquely sized. But now, the procedure might not happen.
And my boys. My son, whom he calls “The Flash,” was diagnosed last year with Autism Spectrum Disorder, without intellectual or language impairment. At just two and a half, he began experiencing intense emotional episodes. As he grows, his emotions often overwhelm him, and I suspect fear is a significant factor. I had always thought Autism looked a certain way, but I was unprepared for the raw reality. Watching him battle his own fears makes him a superhero in my eyes. I longed for the day I could tell him that I too had confronted a formidable foe: Cancer, the ultimate villain. I was no longer afraid, yet it felt as though life had robbed me of the chance to prove my strength.
What I’ve learned is that fear resembles the imaginary monster in my son’s room—it fades away when the lights come on. Fear is merely a distorted perception of reality. You can allow it to engulf you or take charge of it. My view of fear has shifted, but I also empathize with that 12-year-old girl who wasn’t ready to crawl through the tunnel.
On December 19, 2014, I donated 55% of my liver to my friend out of love. The lights turned on, banishing fear. Miraculously, just three days after the staging surgery, the results changed after further pathology reports. It was unprecedented. We were given only 18 hours’ notice before the transplant would proceed after all. The night before, we spent time together in the hospital, navigating the emotional rollercoaster with laughter and disbelief. As I lay on my cot at 4:30 a.m., staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the 12-year-old me emerging from that tunnel. It was about more than just the procedure; it was about setting an example for my children, showing them that facing fears is possible.
This led me to a conversation two months later:
Me: “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” (I was driving, distracted by him flinging his blanket around)
4-year-old son: “I’m giving Nee Nee my liver.” (Nee Nee is his beloved blanket)
Me: “Oh really? Why?”
4-year-old son: “Because he’s sick and I love him.” (Well, there you have it)
So yes, I’ve been thinking a lot about fear lately. The journey my friend and I have traveled over these months is hard to articulate, akin to the indescribable feeling of cradling my newborns for the first time. Some life experiences defy expression. My friend continues to fight, but now with a new liver and a refreshed sense of fearlessness.
As for me, I no longer dread being late to my son’s school. Some mornings, it simply doesn’t work out. I’m not afraid of my son having a meltdown or of Autism. I have confidence that my children will be okay. I don’t fear that I’m failing as a mother. My youngest son perfectly captured my feelings upon my return home after donating my liver. Exhausted and in pain, I wondered if he would remember me after two weeks away. But when I walked through the door, he ran to me and gently laid his head against my healing scar.
There’s no doubt about it: fear pales in comparison to love. Throughout my life, the image of that metal tunnel has represented my fears. Life presents us with moments that provoke debilitating fear, often without reason. My hope is that my experience as an organ donor will offer my boys perspective when they encounter their own dark moments. I want them to remember that turning on the light can reveal the strength that resides within.
For more insights on related topics, check out our post on artificial insemination kits, and explore how to securely buckle your newborn into a car seat, an excellent resource for new parents. Additionally, for valuable information regarding pregnancy, visit the CDC’s pregnancy page.
Summary:
This article reflects on the profound journey of overcoming fear through the experience of donating a liver to a best friend diagnosed with cancer. It explores the evolution of fear from childhood to motherhood, highlighting the shift in perspective that comes with facing challenges head-on. Ultimately, it emphasizes the strength of love in overcoming fear and the lessons learned that can be passed down to the next generation.