If I look around, there's still many wonderful things around me I can focus on
In the long arithmetic of survival, Preet Brar has already beaten extraordinary odds once — enduring six and a half years on dialysis before a transplant gave her seventeen years of ordinary life beside her son. Now, at fifty, with that kidney gone and her body once again dependent on machines, she is asking the world for a second reprieve, not only for herself but for a twenty-five-year-old son who cannot fully comprehend a future without her. Her story is a quiet reminder that the body's fragility and a parent's love operate on entirely different timescales, and that the gap between them is sometimes bridged only by a stranger's generosity.
- Brar's transplanted kidney failed in 2022, pulling her back into dialysis three to four times a week — a gruelling routine of cramps and exhaustion that has already sent her to emergency care multiple times, most recently in May of this year.
- Her son, who lives with developmental delays, epilepsy, and diabetes, has begun asking his mother whether she is dying — questions she must answer for a mind that cannot easily hold the weight of them.
- Because she carries O-positive blood, the pool of compatible donors is narrower than average, and Canadian wait times stretch long enough that going public felt like the only remaining lever she could pull.
- Friends persuaded her to share her story openly, trading the vulnerability of a public ask for the possibility that someone within reach might be a match and willing to be tested.
- The search now rests with anyone carrying O-positive blood who might contact Vancouver Coastal Health's kidney donor nurse — a single email address standing between Brar's present crisis and the chance of years still ahead.
Preet Brar was twenty-three weeks pregnant when her blood pressure spiked and both kidneys failed. Her son was born at 1.1 pounds, eyes still sealed, placed straight into an incubator. That was 2001. Now fifty, she is back at the same threshold — searching for a kidney to survive.
For six and a half years after his birth, she lived tethered to a dialysis machine. Because she carries O-positive blood, the donor pool was narrow and the wait was long. In 2007, she received a transplant abroad. It held for seventeen years — long enough for her son to reach adulthood, long enough for her to believe the worst had passed.
Then acute kidney failure returned in 2022. Hospitalized, she contracted COVID pneumonia and was transferred to Vancouver General, close enough to death that she wasn't sure she would leave. She has been on dialysis three or four times a week ever since, the treatment leaving her muscles cramping and her body depleted. In May of this year, she found herself in emergency care again.
Her son, now 25, carries his own medical complexity — developmental delays, moderate intellectual disability, epilepsy, and diabetes. When her kidney failed last August, he began asking whether she was dying, whether she was going to heaven. The concepts are too large for him to hold. The fear that lives beneath all of this, for Brar, is not her own death but what comes after it for him: without her, a new family would have to be found.
Friends urged her to go public. She was reluctant — asking strangers for your life requires a particular kind of courage — but the logic was plain. Without a donor, the exhaustion deepens and the risk compounds. With one, there is a chance at more years, more presence, more mornings beside her son.
She tries to stay anchored in what remains good, describing it not as denial but as the hard work of staying upright. Anyone with O-positive blood who may be a match can reach Vancouver Coastal Health's kidney donor nurse, Jovana Bosiljcic, at kidneydonornurse@vch.ca, referencing file number 8111.
Preet Brar was 23 weeks pregnant when her blood pressure spiked dangerously and both her kidneys shut down. Her son arrived at 1.1 pounds, eyes still sealed closed, placed immediately into an incubator. That was 2001. Now, a quarter-century later, the 50-year-old Surrey mother is back where she started—searching for a kidney to survive.
For six and a half years after her son's birth, Brar lived tethered to a dialysis machine. The wait for a transplant in Canada stretched on, the delays compounding because she carries O-positive blood, a type that narrows the pool of available donors. In 2007, she finally received a kidney transplant outside the country. It held for seventeen years—long enough for her son to grow into adulthood, long enough for her to believe the worst was behind them.
Then, in 2022, acute kidney failure struck again. While hospitalized, she contracted COVID pneumonia and was transferred to Vancouver General Hospital, hovering close enough to death that she remembers thinking she might not make it. Since then, she has returned to dialysis three or four times each week. The treatment is relentless—physically exhausting, leaving her muscles cramping so severely that pain becomes the dominant fact of her existence.
Her son, now 25, carries his own medical weight. He has global developmental delays, moderate intellectual disability, epilepsy, and diabetes. When her kidney failed last August, he began asking questions that no child should have to ask: "Are you dying? Are you going to heaven, mummy?" The concepts are too abstract for him to hold easily. Understanding that his mother's body is failing, that she might not be there, that the world could shift beneath him—these are not things his mind can fully grasp.
On May 17 of this year, Brar found herself in emergency care again, another reminder that time is not infinite. The fear that keeps her awake is not abstract. If something happens to her, who cares for her son? With a special-needs child, she knows, you have to find another family. That scenario lives in the back of her mind constantly, a shadow she cannot quite shake.
Friends urged her to go public with her story, to put her need into the world and hope that someone listening might be a match. She was reluctant at first—there is vulnerability in asking strangers for your life. But the math is simple: without a donor, the dialysis continues, the exhaustion deepens, the risk compounds. With one, there is a chance at years, at presence, at being there for her son.
She tries to hold onto what remains good. "If I look around, there's still many wonderful things around me I can focus on," she said. It is not denial. It is the hard work of staying upright when the ground keeps shifting. Anyone with O-positive blood who might be a match can contact Vancouver Coastal Health's kidney donor nurse, Jovana Bosiljcic, at kidneydonornurse@vch.ca, referencing file number 8111. The search continues.
Notable Quotes
Are you dying? Are you going to heaven, mummy?— Brar's son, when learning of her kidney failure in August 2024
With a special-needs kid, you usually have to find another family— Preet Brar, on her fears about her son's future
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What does it feel like, physically, to be on dialysis three times a week?
It's not just the time—it's the exhaustion afterward, the muscle cramping that can be severe. Your body is being cleaned by a machine, and that process takes a toll. You're not quite yourself for hours after.
And your son—when he asks if you're dying, what do you tell him?
That's the hardest part. He can't fully understand what kidney failure means, what dialysis is. You're trying to be honest without terrifying him, but the reality is there either way.
You had a transplant that lasted 17 years. Did you think that would be it?
You hope it will be. You think you've paid your dues, that you've earned some stability. Then your body reminds you that nothing is guaranteed.
What's the worst part about being a single mother in this situation?
The contingency planning. You have to think about what happens to him if you're not here. That's not something you should have to carry alone.
Why did you decide to go public with this?
Friends kept pushing me. I was scared of it at first—asking strangers for your life feels exposing. But the alternative is waiting, and waiting is running out of time.
What would a successful transplant mean for you?
Years. Stability. The chance to actually be present for my son instead of just surviving.