Hello Everyone,

I admit, this week I feel rather defeated.

I was admitted to the hospital last Wednesday (May 14) because I couldn’t keep down fluids—something I thought I caught from Barney. Now, if I were me three years ago—just vomiting and dealing with diarrhea—I wouldn’t have gone to the emergency room. But since I’ve had a kidney transplant, I can’t mess with anything. What I thought would be a short stay turned into a three-day treatment for continued severe kidney rejection.

I find it strange—once again, I go into the hospital for one thing and end up being treated for something entirely different. (They tested me for everything—COVID, flu, GI bugs—all negative.)

During my hospital stay, I had another kidney biopsy, which showed continued severe rejection. As a result, I now have to endure another six rounds of plasma exchange and two five-hour infusions of IVIG therapy over the next two weeks. Yes, the treatments are worth it, in the hopes that I can sustain minimal kidney damage and get back to my life. But the therapies leave me completely drained, and in my head, I keep thinking, How much more of this can I fcking endure?*

Some days, I feel like I can reach a few moments of self-actualization and growth, despite how much I’m physically and mentally going through. And other days, I feel like I’m back at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. It’s not just me—it’s my family too.

I haven’t written to you all about this yet, but we’re in survival mode. I’m sick and my parents and Ian are hitting caregiver burnout. We’re tackling one issue, one bump, one day at a time.

You probably know this feeling—if you’ve cared for an aging parent or a loved one through illness. When someone gets sick, it’s not just hard on them. It’s hard on everyone. And in my circumstance, I’m immunocompromised, so it’s even more challenging to accept help or delegate responsibilities outside my immediate circle.

I see the exhaustion in my parents. My mom is always checking that her mask is on whenever she’s in a room with me. My dad has been a bit distracted—not intentionally, but it’s his way of coping. They should be enjoying retirement and going on vacations. Instead, they’re caring for their 41-year-old daughter like she’s eight again.

Ian is trying to hold down work while caring for our sixteen-month-old—doing daycare drop-off, taking him to doctor’s appointments, and trying to keep some kind of routine going. But he’s tired. My parents are tired. And I’m tired. No one can really rest.

And then there’s the grief—not just about my health, but about everything it interrupts. Work. Parenthood. Retirement. The lives we thought we’d be living. I’m not saying there aren’t moments of joy and appreciation—we certainly have those too—but there’s a lot of: Will this ever fcking end?*

Some might describe this as suffering—a negative emotional and psychological response to pain or hardship. Many believe suffering is optional, based on the idea that humans can control their thoughts—and, by extension, how they experience pain or hardship.

This brings me to another thought: these days, there’s so much emphasis on transcending our suffering—seeing it as a “gift,” staying positive through it, counting one’s blessings, or finding meaning in it.

I’m not saying that perspective is wrong—but I do think these ideas of transcendence have their flaws. Like, if you don’t accomplish these things or can’t overcome suffering—if you struggle with it—somehow you’re seen as failing at healing.

I’m coming to believe there’s no bypassing pain and suffering (and as a trained therapist, I’ve tried). It doesn’t mean I want to wallow in it, but thinking positively or counting blessings, in my experience, doesn’t get rid of it. And often, I don’t find meaning in it.

And I don’t think negative thinking is always bad. Sure, it’s not pleasant to be around—but when it has limits, when it’s given space without taking over, it can be insightful. Not all negative thinking is truly negative.

I think pain and suffering can exist on their own, and sometimes they’re just something to accept. Acceptance doesn’t mean I rise above or make meaning of the experience—that’s what some definitions of transcendence suggest—but rather that I allow myself just to let it fcking suck. Some might call this acceptance a form of transcendence, which is fine by me too 😂.

Maybe not every hardship needs to be turned into a narrative of growth. Maybe some of it just is. Sometimes it just fcking sucks, and it’s just part of being human.

So, no tidy bow here. Just this: I’m tired. We’re tired. And in writing this, I’m just holding space for the suffering.

With love,
Danielle

PS. I’m home now with Ian and Barney (a question many of you have been asking).
PSS. Thank you for all your replies and comments. If I don’t respond individually, please don’t take it personally—I’m pretty low on bandwidth right now, but I love hearing from you!