It was found almost by accident, in the run-up to the donation, on a scan — a shadow on my bile ducts that turned out to be the kind of cancer that does not offer you very much.

Cholangiocarcinoma.

By the time they were certain, my donation was already scheduled, and I sat in an out-of-network office and listened to an oncologist named Nakashima explain, gently, that we were talking about months, that treatment might buy a few more uncertain ones but would not cure me, and would cost me most of the quality of whatever time I had.

I want to be honest about the choice I made, because it has been misunderstood, including by me.

I did not conceal my illness so that I could nobly die giving Gregor a kidney; I am not a martyr and I will not be made into one, not even by my own worst impulses.

I concealed it because I was, still, in those weeks, the disappearing woman, and the disappearing woman’s instinct was to not be a burden, to not derail his transplant, to hold her own catastrophe quietly to one side so as not to inconvenience anyone.