I haven't been on very good terms with my dad in a long time. We disagree on a lot of things - on almost everything actually - and we're very vocal about it. We say hurtful things to each other, intentionally or just in the heat of the moment. Sometimes we're downright childish and immature. I guess that's just part of having almost identically stubborn personalities. We have a lot of mixed feelings between us, but we've always been there in each other's lives, for better or for worse.

Ever since I could fully understand what kidney failure meant, I've known that he would inevitably need surgery. Twenty-five years ago when he had his first kidney transplant, he knew too. And yet, the reality of it hit hard this year when his blood results persistently deteriorated, when his weight dropped so alarmingly that he couldn't even hold his wallet in his pockets, and when his arms got thinner than mine - it was like watching him crumble in slow motion, and not being able to do anything about it. Watching it happen, helpless, feels like I'm suffocating but it's on the inside, like water twisting through my lungs, pushing at my throat, my skull, my shoulders, and I can't escape. It makes me feel like I'm swimming through honey, the sticky, viscous liquid weighing me down, making me feel heavier than I am, giving me more than I'm used to pulling along. The most painful part about it however, is watching him smile assuringly, when I know he's hurting inside, because I see him cry silently every day as he prays.

As the surgery looms near, I am at a loss because I know my parents look to me for support, but I don't know how or what to do. I visit them at the hospital almost every day (my dad is allowed only one bystander, so my mom stays with him) and I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. If someone told me exactly what to do, I still probably wouldn't be able to do it because I'm struggling to figure out how to convey myself without letting a dam of incoherency burst forth. Instead of saying anything, I sit in his room, silent, listening. Maybe playing video games or reading a book - anything to distract myself. But every few minutes, I steal a glance at him. I wonder what he's thinking about when I do. He constantly prays, so I assume he's got a conversation with God going on in there. But how does he feel? Does he constantly think about it too, like I do every time I look at him or think of him?

My mom I know, is constantly stressing about it. She wears herself out and looks at me desperately, trying to comprehend how I, unlike her, am not a visible mess. She has more than once questioned me on how I can be so calm and composed. I don't have an answer. It's a deadly calm that I can't control, just like the storm on the inside crushing my chest. Instead I say "I don't know, I'm just sure it's all going to be fine."

Yes, I'm the reassurer. I'm the one who says "It's all going to be okay, why wouldn't it be?" It isn't because I'm trying to be obtuse, it's because I honestly cannot imagine it not going okay. Why would it not? My father is okay and here now, therefore he will be okay. I'm unwilling to accept anything else, my mind simply does not allow it. It's not like I don't know that things could go wrong. And it's definitely not like saying everything will be alright makes me not panic on the inside. But it's all I can say- it's my automatic response out loud. When I say it, I truly believe it. If I could convince just one person that everything will be okay, then maybe it will. Call it a coping mechanism, a delusion, whatever, but to me, it is hope. Hope, manifested from panic, from terror that everything might be thrown off of its current equilibrium, that someone who has been with me through the entirety of my life may disappear, possibly leaving me to fill up a hole he left behind- a task I could never fulfill, no matter how hard I tried.

So to those with loved ones fighting to survive every day, be strong. Be strong for them, just as they are being strong for you. When they look at us reassuringly, they are looking for a reflection of that reassurance to give them the hope that they need, just as much as we need it from them, maybe more. I don't know much about what to really say for comfort in these situations but I've learned that your physical presence can do wonders for your loved ones. Be there for them, distract them, assure them. Say with conviction that you truly believe that whatever happens, it happens for the best. Say it with the confidence that you know you don't have, with the hope that you need to infuse them with so that both you and they can push through one more day. I'm still finding it hard to do, but for the sake of my family, I continue to push through the waves that threaten to drown me- and them- every day.

Both of my parents go into surgery on the 26th of this month: my mother as the kidney donor, my father as the receiver. Now, I may not always be on the same page as my parents. We disagree on a lot of things- on almost everything, actually- and we're very vocal about it. We say hurtful things to each other, intentionally or just in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, we're downright childish and immature. But I am waiting with nothing but hope for them because I fully believe that anything that happens will be for the best, and everything will somehow, work out. You should too.