Hello Everyone,

I’ve been watching the show Paradise on Hulu, which follows a Secret Service agent as he tries to uncover who killed the president, all while living in a massive underground bunker in Colorado, three years after the world has ended. It made me think—when I was on dialysis, I often thought about the apocalypse. I’ve always loved apocalyptic books and movies. Some of my favorites include World War Z by Max Brooks (yes, Mel Brooks’s son), The John Matherson Series, and The Walking Dead comic books.

I believe I am starting to understand why people like watching and reading about the apocalypse. It’s something about humanity’s drive to survive and build something new from the ruins. There’s subtle trauma, mourning, and resilience—all wrapped up in one storyline. These elements feel truer to form than the over-the-top dramatizations we often see in media today, even when the apocalypse itself is exaggerated.

I’ve also always been fascinated by stories of pioneers and cowboys moving to the Wild West. While I now understand the darker history of colonization that underpins these stories, as a kid, I was captivated by the idea of surviving the journey across the country. I still secretly love these books and movies—Little House on the Prairie, Godless, The English, True Grit—stories of revenge, taking justice into your own hands, persevering, and building something new. These themes, too, reflect the desire to restore justice when others are unwilling, and taking control of one’s fate despite the chaotic, unpredictable frontier. None of these stories have a neatly gift-wrapped ending, but the characters move forward, rebuilding their lives, also true to real life.

Maybe that’s why these stories resonate with me so much. I feel as if I left something behind, a desire to survive, yet recognize all the subtleties of the things I have to process, yet quietly hold the sadness as I move on. I’ll never have justice or revenge for what happened to me, for how I lost my kidneys. But I understand that yearning. And now I am on the frontier of building something new with my life post-transplant—both in having a young family but also exploring ways I want to give back.

And yet, when I was sick, I couldn’t help but think: if I were in an apocalypse, I wouldn’t even last three weeks. Without dialysis, I’d die—my body bloating, muscles cramping, the headaches coming in waves. I know exactly what that decline looks like because I lived it.

So naturally, I’d imagine scenarios where Ian, Barney, and I were fleeing from zombies, and I’d become the sacrificial lamb—buying them time while I lured the horde away. In my mind, Ian and Barney would tear up as they watched me run off, nobly sacrificing myself for their survival. Other times, I’d think about how devastating it would be if an EMP wiped out all supply chains and I couldn’t get my meds. I’d do whatever it took—syphoning gas from abandoned cars, finding a way to get them to safety, even if I knew I wouldn’t make it.

Even before kidney disease, I probably wouldn’t have survived the apocalypse. I’m not mechanically inclined. I can’t build things or fix engines. I don’t know how to syphon gas. Ian, though—he’d be the perfect survivor. In college, he converted an old diesel Mercedes to run on kitchen grease and drove across the country collecting grease from restaurants while his friend filmed a documentary on sustainability. He’d make it. Not me, the clumsy one who can’t even assemble IKEA furniture.

Maybe, in some other version of the world ending, I’d have a place. There’s a small chance I’d be the therapist in the survival camp, if there aren’t hundreds of others offering that same service, using hypnotherapy to help others move through crises in exchange for meager rations. Maybe that’s how I’d survive.

But really, these thoughts, zombie daydreams—these ridiculous, imaginary what-ifs—were just another way of processing grief. And while I don’t think about the apocalypse as much now, the one or two times I have post-transplant and since watching Paradise, I realize it’s not just about the change in my kidney health, but about the broader reality of my new life—even after the transplant. There will always be medications. There will always be risks. Even though I feel better than I have in 16 months, the reality is, I still get tired in ways I never used to. I still have to lie down sometimes and just stop. And while I’m grateful for my kidney transplant, there’s a quiet grief in the loss of my former health. A pain in my chest. A scream in my throat that wants to yell, This isn’t fair.

And I think about my therapist, who works with critically ill patients, and what she once told me when I cried, “Why me?” She said, Not everything is about you. And she was right.

Because yes, this is about me, but it’s also about Ian and Barney. It’s about knowing that, if something happens to me—though I’m hoping that’s unlikely—I want Ian to move forward, experience love again, and build a beautiful life with Barney. I want them to enjoy each other, explore the world, learn, and grow together—whether I’m there or not.

And it’s about Barney, too. I know my illness, even if I remain relatively healthy, will shape his childhood in some way. Maybe it will be the defining trauma he carries, or maybe it’ll be something else entirely. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I don’t want to shield him from everything. I see so many parents today trying to protect their kids from discomfort, from risk, from the world itself. No playgrounds alone. No sleepovers. No riding bikes without constant supervision. Statistically, the world is safer than ever, but the news and media present it like it’s already the apocalypse.

I don’t want that for Barney. I want him to build resilience, not because I want him to suffer, but because I know he will face hardships—everyone does. And I want him to know that he can survive them. And because of my health, I want him to grow up with so much empathy for others that people walk away from him subconsciously thinking, ‘Barney just made me feel seen and heard,’ and consciously processing, ‘He’s a nice guy.’

So yes, I occasionally think about the apocalypse. But it’s not really about the apocalypse. It’s about grief, hope, and the quiet resilience that comes with moving forward. It’s about the future I want for myself, my son, and my husband—and the strength I hope we all carry into it. While I think thoughts of the apocalypse are worth letting go, I believe the rest is worth holding on to.

With love,
Danielle