A pang of fear hit as the gurney wheeled me away from my family. Months of testing brought me here, and within the hour, I would become my mom’s kidney donor.
Until that point, it struck me as odd when people asked if I was afraid. Why? I love her. That’s enough. And it was enough to bat away intrusive thoughts as the anesthesia took hold.
Those fleeting moments of anxiety paled in comparison to years of uncertainty.
I understood the crushing weight of losing a parent—my dad died before I turned 2. Between his death and the deterioration of my mom’s health, I tumbled through my adolescence fearing I’d lose both my parents before adulthood.
My mom received the IgA nephropathy diagnosis when I was 10. At the time, I didn’t understand how to pronounce it, let alone grasp the complexities of an inflammatory kidney disease that has no cure and can be fatal.
But chronic illness doesn’t give you time to understand. It creeps in and presents itself with a slew of medications, revolving appointments and the enormously draining toll of it all. Despite everything, she expended energy she didn’t have on my behalf. It seemed effortless at the time. I know better now.
Back then it was easier to accept things at a blithe glance—because being anything other than willfully ignorant meant facing a hard reality. I convinced myself that her active role in my life meant all was well.
But I couldn’t pretend anymore. For a decade, I watched the quality of my mother’s life ebb and flow until her kidney function dwindled to a measly 19%. She had two options: dialysis or surgery. With no known viable donor, she was forced to choose the former.
It had been us against the world for as long as I could remember. What if she lost the ability to do the things she loved? What if I lost her? The scenarios I conjured in my mind felt suffocating.
Watching how nightly dialysis altered her life was heartbreaking. At that point, I didn’t have a choice. The voice in my head said the least I could do was try to give back to the person who gave me everything. So when co-workers, professors, peers and doctors asked if I was comfortable with donating a kidney at 20, I said yes emphatically. I don’t believe it was selfless. I selfishly wanted more time with my mom.
Luckily, we got it.
We’re now approaching the 10th anniversary of the donation, and I’m beyond grateful for the opportunity to have been her donor. There may be a world out there in which I wasn’t qualified. There isn’t a world where I wouldn’t do anything for my mom.
