Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the concept of fear—how it shapes us and influences our actions. I can easily recall the fears of my childhood. I remember being 12 years old, paralyzed with anxiety as I peered into a small drainage tunnel that snaked beneath a long driveway, dared by neighborhood boys to crawl through it. Wanting to impress them, I attempted to squeeze into the darkness, but fear overwhelmed me, and I quickly retreated. There’s a lot I could say about the choices I’ve made under the weight of fear, spanning my teenage years into adulthood.
Then, I became a mother, and fear took on a whole new meaning. The terror I felt as my mother closed my bedroom door transformed into sleepless nights spent reassuring my son that monsters weren’t lurking in his closet. I worried about everything—from arriving late for school to the possibility of him swallowing something hazardous. The fear that the world might be cruel to my children or that I might not always be there to protect them loomed large. Add in challenges like marital strife, bills, Autism, and health scares, and it felt as if I was back in that dark tunnel, yearning for the safety of familiarity.
Then came the life-altering news: my best friend was diagnosed with cancer.
This journey began on June 18, 2014, when she received a diagnosis of Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis, a rare bile duct disease that ultimately leads to liver failure. By August, she faced an even grimmer diagnosis: bile duct cancer, a rare occurrence for a 32-year-old woman. Suddenly, our lives revolved around hospital visits, her nights filled with tears from unbearable pain and, I can only imagine, the suffocating grip of fear. She traveled 1,000 miles to Minnesota, seeking the best possible treatment, bravely entering her own metaphorical tunnel. However, hope quickly faded as infections and setbacks plagued her. The only chance for recovery was a liver transplant, but with a severe shortage of deceased donors and her aggressive cancer, a living donor was her best bet.
Then, I had a heartfelt conversation with my little boy:
Me: “Buddy, I’m going to miss you more than anything!” (Showering him with kisses)
4-year-old son: “I’ll miss you too, Mommy. Can you stop?”
Me: “No way—these kisses need to last!” (Tickling him playfully)
4-year-old son: “Please take me to soda town with you.”
Me: “It’s called Minnesota, but they do have soda there.” (A little white lie.)
Me: “Will you promise to be extra nice to your brother while I’m away?”
4-year-old son: “No.”
This was the bulk of our exchanges before I left for Minnesota to donate my liver. The transplant was set for December 15, 2014, but fate had other plans. The day before the surgery, she underwent a staging procedure to assess if the cancer had spread—if it had, the transplant would be off the table forever. I watched in horror as the news was delivered to her mother, and then to her. She displayed incredible bravery, but I felt frozen, back in that tunnel of disbelief. Months of preparation and testing to ensure I was fit for the surgery now seemed futile.
My son, whom I affectionately call “The Flash,” received a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder last year, which adds another layer of complexity to my parenting. He often struggles with intense emotions, and I had hoped to show him the courage of facing fears head-on, to let him know that I too was a superhero battling the scariest villain—cancer. But now, it felt like the universe had robbed me of that chance.
What I learned through this ordeal is that fear resembles the imaginary monster in my son’s room; it dissipates when the lights are switched on. It’s a distorted perception of reality. You can either allow it to consume you or take charge. I now view fear differently, though I don’t fault that 12-year-old girl for hesitating to crawl through the tunnel. She simply wasn’t ready.
On December 19, 2014, I donated 55% of my liver to my friend out of love. Miraculously, just three days after the staging procedure, additional pathology reports indicated that the cancer had not spread, allowing the transplant to proceed. We had only 18 hours’ notice and spent the night before the surgery in the hospital processing the emotional upheaval, sharing laughter amid the chaos. As I lay on my cot at 4:30 a.m., I thought about that 12-year-old girl and how I had emerged from my personal tunnel. It was more than just the transplant—it was an opportunity to lead my children by example, showing that facing fears is possible.
Two months later, during another car ride, my son surprised me:
Me: “What are you doing back there?” (Noticing him playing with his blanket)
4-year-old son: “I’m giving Nee Nee my liver.”
Me: “Oh really? Why’s that?”
4-year-old son: “Because he’s sick, and I love him.” (Pure wisdom from a child.)
So yes, I’ve been pondering fear quite a bit. The experiences my friend and I endured are challenging to articulate, much like the indescribable joy of holding your newborn for the first time. My friend is still fighting, but now she’s armed with a new liver and a fresh perspective on fearlessness.
As for me, I no longer worry about being late to drop my son off at school. Some mornings, it just doesn’t happen. I’m not afraid of meltdowns or of Autism. I feel confident that my children will turn out just fine, and I’m not scared of being a flawed parent. My youngest, just 16 months old, expressed it beautifully without uttering much. When I returned home after my surgery, exhausted and in pain, I feared he might not recognize me. But he ran to me, and as I sat on the floor, he lifted my shirt and gently placed his head on my stomach, right next to my healing scar.
It’s clear to me now: fear is insignificant when love is involved.
Throughout my life, whenever fear stung, I would think back to that metal tunnel from my childhood. Certain moments are paralyzing, often for reasons we can’t understand. My hope is that my journey as an organ donor will offer my boys valuable insight as they navigate their own dark moments—reminding them that when faced with fear, they can turn on the light and discover their own strength.
For more insights on fertility and home insemination, check out our other blog posts, such as this one on fertility and IVF for same-sex couples. If you’re considering at-home insemination, Make A Mom provides a comprehensive kit to help you on this journey. And for valuable resources on pregnancy, visit NICHD.
Summary:
In the course of donating part of my liver to save my best friend’s life, I grappled with fear, motherhood, and the transformative power of love. This experience has reshaped my understanding of fear, showing me that it often diminishes in the light of love and courage. The journey has not only strengthened my bond with my friend but also offered invaluable lessons for my children about facing fears.