I Need A New Kidney. My Daughter Wants To Give Me Hers — But How Can I Accept It?

I slide closer to Liza, my only daughter, sitting on the cream chenille sofa as she explains she wants to donate her kidney to me. The knot in my gut tightens. My maternal instincts rise like an emotional geyser.

It’s cozy in the house, but a cold January sky tops snowy evergreens beyond the window. Liza lives in Philadelphia, but she can work anywhere remotely, so she has come home to Minnesota for an extended holiday visit.

Her words melt me, and I clasp one of her hands with both of mine.

She wants to protect me and make everything OK. But isn’t this my job? My innate instinct to protect her from harm was instantaneous from the moment she was born 25 years ago.

Even during my pregnancy, a fierce parental protection circulated through me, and it hasn’t dissipated. I’d still move a mountain for her, so my mama-bear nature doesn’t know how to process this.

Let me explain.

Decades ago, when all my friends were reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” I longed to buy that book too. But unlike all my friends, I’d had two kidney transplants within six years because, out of the blue, at 22, an autoimmune kidney disease forced me to process the word “incurable.” I feared my body wouldn’t be a friendly hotel for a developing life.

That’s why, the moment a blue cross appeared on a white stick, I believed in miracles.

My high-risk pregnancy breezed by until 28 weeks. Then, complications triggered concerns about premature delivery.

My nurse relayed the potential health effects that can result from prematurity. A colossal panic bombarded me from head to toe. To fend off my terror, I focused on one thought only: Mybaby must be OK.

And how could I possibly deliver a baby early? I hadn’t taken classes yet! My doctor