Living and Levels

I catch myself clutching the left side of my abdomen with an open palm and feel the scars beneath my fingers. The scars are more than just the result of a kidney surgery five years ago. They are a constant reminder of the immense loss, pain (both physical and emotional) and tragedy I experienced. My mother tells me that she’ll pay for a psychologist but I refuse. “We’re not from California,” I tell her. We’re from North Idaho. This means access to a therapist is an inconvenience (of driving 45 minutes to obtain access to one) and I’m not about to make my mother shell out $100 an hour so some stranger can tell me how I feel. I know exactly how I feel. I’m impossibly angry, sad, and humiliated and the inner turmoil is difficult to bear. Grief rarely makes sense; shock even less so.


I'd always had the dream of becoming a doctor; I had the medical books I’d read through at least twice, the posters of the human body systems on my wall at the age of 5, and I’d been a doctor for Halloween ever since I can remember. I was proud of my goal in life and worked extremely hard in school because I wanted to be the best and most knowledgeable doctor possible. I graduated from Sandpoint High School with a 3.99 GPA, high honors, and part of several academic clubs. I enjoyed school to the point where I even wished school went year-round so that during the summer I wouldn’t have an itch to the point of anxiety to go back and work further toward becoming a doctor.

My kidney surgery caused me to miss months of school my freshman year of college at Whitworth University and this absence resulted in an extremely low GPA my freshman year. My lifelong dream of becoming a doctor shattered when I lost the near full-ride academic scholarship I’d worked so hard for my whole entire life. I felt numb and empty as I applied to Boise State University and that feeling continued years into my Boise State undergraduate career. I’d lost my identity, my surety of self; my entire being. The very thing I’d lived for and worked so hard towards- broken; crumpled; blown away with an eerie ease. I no longer had a sense of direction or purpose and was shoved off the path I had so diligently followed. Feeling lost is an understatement to the massive loss I experienced and for years I fought hard to recover and find footing.

  My kidney surgery was the result of a UPJ obstruction and tangles that had occurred as a congenital condition; meaning a birth defect in simpler terms. Most of the time when a UPJ is not detected in childhood, the kidney becomes completely blocked off in teenage to early adulthood years when the ureter and renal pelvis (bottom of the kidney) narrows. This causes fluid to build up, which damages the kidney and causes toxicity in the body. The treatment is surgery and the recovery time is between 3 months to 7 months depending on the technique utilized. For me, the recovery was 10% physical, 20% mental and 70% emotional. With the excision of the bottom half of my kidney, my identity followed.

I’ve seen and heard many times that success is not a straight road. That many failures add up to great success and that it takes time, dedication, and persistence. I’ve heard that everything happens for a reason and that things fall apart so something better can fall together. This does not make me feel better; it feels superficial and frustrates me. I feel as though my failures were not learning experiences but crippling experiences. I had to completely relinquish the identity I’ve had for myself my entire life since leaving Whitworth University.

I've come to realize that identity is not something that is black and white, although I have not come to terms with that yet. As much as I would like my identity to be determined, set, certain; I know not everything in life is going to be perfect and go as expected.  The sudden and shocking loss was traumatic, leaving no time for me to prepare myself for the loss. It challenged my sense of safety and security and shattered my devoted confidence in life predictability. Emotional stability requires security, control, positive sense of identity and a positive sense of belonging. I no longer had that stability, and the entropy that was once controllable spiraled out of control.

  After leaving Whitworth I struggled accepting a new career path for fear that something else traumatic would happen. I was expecting and waiting for something tragic to occur where I'd have to quit or miss school again and my newfound identity would be lost just as quickly and easily as the first. I was afraid to be passionate, dedicated, and motivated for a long time. However I've come to recognize the fear and it's allowed me to open up to the possibility of loving and becoming passionate again. It's given me hope for the future; for my future.