(Continued from In The Beginning…)
It was then I had to sit down with family and friends to tell them what was going on with me medically. I had held this information internally for a few months before I was ready to speak it into existence.
Once I spoke it, it was real.
And I wasn’t ready for it to be real.
There comes a point when silence, once a refuge, begins to feel like confinement.
For months, I had carried the weight of my kidney diagnosis in solitude.
I had rehearsed the lines endlessly in my mind. Not poetic ones. Just the basics.
“My kidneys are failing.”
“I’ll need dialysis soon.”
“I’ll eventually need a transplant.”
But each time I tried to say them out loud, my voice faltered. As if silence could somehow shield me.
Silence had given me space to pretend. To believe I was sparing my loved ones from worry. To protect myself from the weight of seeing their reactions. But silence also builds walls. And mine were beginning to close in.
So, I chose a night.
Sunday, October 28th, 2023.
I had lingered at my parents’ house longer than usual. As the evening wound down, I found the courage to speak: “We need to have a family meeting. I have something to share.” I said without much emotion in my tone.
We gathered around the dining table. Hands folded. Eyes averted. Anticipation lingered in the air.
And then I finally spoke the words.
There were questions. So many questions. Some I could answer. Many I couldn’t at that point. There was a long, aching pause after I said, “kidney issues.”
I hadn’t realized how much I needed that conversation until it was over. It didn’t erase the diagnosis. It didn’t change the path ahead. But it cracked open a door I had kept sealed shut. And through that door came support. My parents stepping into the role of my care team (required for a transplant patient), prayers, understanding, humor, rides to appointments, and something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.
I still think about that night. About the courage it took to finally speak. About the grace it took them to hear.
And to accept. And step up to help in every way they can.
Healing doesn’t always begin with medicine, but with the truth. With vulnerability. With the bravery of saying, “This is happening. And I need you. I can’t do this alone.”
Next up, a call to my sister.
Something I could have never planned, I was discharged from UNMC on October 28th, 2025 – exactly 2 years from telling my family about my kidney issues.