Hi Everyone,

Over the last few weeks, my family and I have gotten a lot of texts and emails. Thank you so much for checking in. I’ve been quiet lately, and unfortunately, that’s because I’ve been dealing with a virus that has turned into something more serious.

A few weeks ago, my doctors discovered the virus in my system. The initial plan was to treat it with antiviral medications and monitoring. When I met with my team last Thursday, my viral count had gone up a bit, and they were getting ready to switch me to a stronger medication—with some potentially awful side effects. Then, on Friday (4/11), I got a call: my viral count had suddenly spiked, multiplying sevenfold. They wanted to admit me to the hospital right away.

The strange part? I didn’t even feel sick.

That night was my dad’s 70th birthday, and my parents were out celebrating. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. I didn’t lie exactly—but when my mom texted asking for an update, I said, “My viral count is higher, and I’m waiting to talk to my doctor,” which was true. I just didn’t mention the part about being admitted to the hospital.

Saturday was rough—not physically, but mentally. It was rainy, and I was stuck in a hospital room, feeling fine but trapped. I didn’t feel like walking the halls, but I convinced the doctors to give me an outside pass for Sunday. My parents came by that afternoon. I was grumpy and frustrated. It felt like being in the hospital was making me sick. I had migraines, which could’ve been from the antivirals or maybe just stress. I couldn’t tell.

By Sunday, my mood had lifted a little. My family came for a walk, and it felt good to be outside. But I started feeling a strange tension in my right side. I brushed it off—probably muscular, I thought.

Then early Monday morning, around 4 AM, I woke up in extreme pain—sharp, localized, right where my kidney sits. My team jumped into action. Bloodwork showed that my kidney function was dropping. They ordered a CT scan and an ultrasound. The good news: the scans didn’t show any major organ issues, and the kidney still appeared to be okay. But nothing explained the level of pain I was in. They kept me medicated and ordered a biopsy.

The biopsy was yesterday. I was relieved because the same surgeons who did my transplant—and Brad’s surgery—were the ones who performed the procedure. They did an ultrasound and examined me in person, and that’s when they confirmed my kidney was swollen. They told me it could be a bad reaction to the antivirals or a sign of early rejection.

So we waited. More pain, more guessing, more uncertainty.

Today the results came back. Worst case scenario: I am experiencing severe kidney rejection.

The treatment plan is aggressive. Tomorrow I’ll have a catheter placed in my chest again. I’ll start plasma exchange three times a week for at least two weeks, to clean toxins out of my system. I’ll also begin IV antivirals and high-dose steroids. They’re preparing me for a really hard stretch ahead—physically, mentally, emotionally. It sounds like I’ll need help with basic daily things again. I’ll probably lose my ability to write for a bit, just from sheer exhaustion and brain fog.

But here’s the thing: my doctors are optimistic. They caught this early. They have a solid plan. And they believe we can turn this around. It feels completely different from when I lost my kidneys after giving birth to Barney—when the team told me they weren’t likely to come back. This time, everyone’s staying positive. It’s just going to be a rough road.

I spoke on the phone with Brad—my donor—yesterday. We didn’t talk about anything major, but just hearing his voice lifted my spirits. He was kind, encouraging, and supportive of what I’m going through right now. We shared a meaningful moment and discussed how, together, we can use our story to help others and maybe even save more lives. That conversation gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Something shifted in me—I felt more grounded, more hopeful, and honestly, more empowered. I’m so grateful he’s in my life.

So I know there’s going to be an outpouring of support, and I’m so grateful. Here’s what I need from you:

I love getting your emails, texts, notes, letters, and updates (yes—please tell me what’s going on in your life!). I might not respond, but I’ll be reading them. Please don’t ask me or my family for medical updates—it’s draining. We’ll share news when there’s something major to share.

Also, please don’t ask, “How are you doing?” The honest answer is: “like shit.” Instead, ask if there’s anything you can do. Or just say, “thinking of you” or “love you”—whatever feels real. If we want to talk about how we’re doing, we will. Honestly, more often than not, we’d rather hear how you’re doing. The distraction is so welcome right now.

I still feel a deep sense of purpose to share my story. I’m hopeful this is just a bump in the road. I can’t wait to get back to writing, to advocacy, and to being fully present in this second chance at life—it just might take a few weeks.

Love,
Danielle