Dine's Ethos

I’m a planner. I map everything down to the smallest details—spreadsheets for trips, checklists for just about everything. My sisters might say I have a control problem. Lollll. Lordtttt.

But man, when shit goes sideways, it really goes sideways. All the way.

I went to the ER on a random Sunday night at 10 p.m., thinking it’d be a quick visit. Maybe an antibiotic. Instead, I was admitted to the hospital for almost two weeks.

My blood pressure was in the 200s. Water in my lungs. An enlarged heart. Kidneys failing. I remember thinking: well, damn. What even is working?

Even then, I didn’t think much of it. Other than the coughing, I felt ok. I’d been throwing up frequently since I moved to Samoa, but I figured my stomach just wasn’t agreeing with the food. My appetite changed. I ate less. Sometimes I had to force myself to eat. Again, I thought I just missed the food from back home. I was tired a lot. I slept more. But I rationalized it: I work long hours. Who wouldn’t be tired? Ia ga le.

I have end-stage renal disease.

Lord does that feel so weird to say, type, think. End stage renal disease. At 28. I swear I feel like I’m being punked.

Some days, I can breathe through it. I think, “Okay. I can handle this.” Other days… I think about how nice it would be to no longer exist. To not fight, not adjust, not survive. Just… not be.

I went down a dark path in my head for a while. Some days, I’m back on that path. The kind where your thoughts feel like quicksand. But you know how it goes—you eventually pipe down, shove it to the side, and just… get shit done. Because what else is there?

My parents are coping in their own ways. I think my mom went to the temple every day I was in the hospital. My sisters said she cried from the moment I texted that I’d been admitted until the plane landed in Pago. My dad is ordering everything off the internet to make me more comfortable. Honestly, I’m grateful their faith in God is as strong as it is. I think it’s the only thing holding them together right now. That belief in something bigger, in purpose, in healing—it’s what they’re holding onto.

My siblings… God. I don’t even know how you cope with something like this. If it were any of them in my place, I don’t know if I’d be able to breathe or look at them without wanting to cry.

My aunt and uncle—every time they look at me, it’s like the grief just wells up in them. They don’t always say much, but the sadness in their eyes does all the talking. And, they cry a lot.

Me? I don’t know how to process it. Is it healthy that I’m not thinking about it 24/7? Or am I just bottling everything up like a ticking time bomb? Should I let myself cry more? But what good does crying really do? What changes?

I saw my therapist the week I found out because I just needed something. Some direction. Some space to process. To think. I was about to lose my mind. I’m pretty sure I cried for the entire hour. Just a slow, quiet stream the whole time. And even then, I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do with all of it.

I keep coming back to this: I’m supposed to take care of my parents. That’s always been the plan. And now it’s flipped. Now they’re trying to take care of me. And that shift… that hurts in a way I haven’t even begun to untangle yet.

It just feels like a heavy cloud over me now.

The days keep slipping by and I couldn’t tell you what’s actually happening. I’m not looking forward to anything. Not even the little things. So what else is there to do but think? Reminisce? Daydream? Reflect? Wish? Hope for something different, something easier, something kinder?

I don’t even have the vocabulary to describe how I feel. I try to name it but nothing sticks. It’s just… everything and nothing, all at once.

I want to wallow. Rot. I want to cry until there’s nothing left, scream until I can’t. But what good has that ever done?

So I bury myself in work—deadlines, emails, calls. Or at least try to. It gives me something to do with my hands, something to keep my mind from spiraling too far. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough of an escape. It doesn’t quiet my mind. Some days, productivity feels like a life raft. Other days, it feels like I’m just rearranging chairs on a sinking ship.

It wasn’t—isn’t—the physical pain that wrecked me, that continues to wreck me. I could’ve taken that. Would’ve taken it. The real agony has been mental. Emotional. It comes and goes. But it makes my chest ache so badly I feel like I might split open.

How do I let go of plans? Of dreams? Of what I thought my life would look like in the next year? How do you forget?

It won’t leave me alone. That’s the part I can’t seem to escape. That is what has been so tormenting. Just thinking about it makes my chest fucking ache. It feels like a bruise I can’t stop pressing. 

I thought I was just coming up to the hospital for a quick visit. I thought I’d be able to go back. And now, the best thing for me… is to stay in Utah for the time being. I don’t even think I reacted when the doctors told me. I just sat there. Again in the midst of this, I can’t seem to let go of the belief that I need to have my shit together all the time. 

Even as I’m drowning in all of this, reality still demands answers. Now I need to figure out if I’ll eventually return to Samoa. What do I do with my job? Is this a sign I’m supposed to stay here? Do I sell my car now? I’m attached to my car. I really don’t want to sell it. How do I plan? Should I even plan?

At the same time, I’m lucky. My mom and sisters flew down not even 48 hours after I was admitted. My friends showed up at the hospital every day. Made me laugh and get scolded by security. I had the means to fly up right away. I’ve been waited on hand and foot.

I’m lucky. I’m around family. My sisters make me laugh every day. My mom takes me to all my medical appointments. My dad asks every day if I need anything. I get to hear my nieces call me “Aunty” again. My aunties visit often. I’ve gotten so many flowers. Texts and calls asking what I want to eat, what I’m craving.

I’ve been wrapped in so much love. More love than I know what to do with sometimes. Even in the middle of this, I know I’m blessed beyond measure.

So why does that make me even sadder?