Having cystic fibrosis is like getting struck by lightning on a sunny day.
Where did that come from? the onlookers say. I don’t see any burn marks, where’s the damage? Did that really just happen?
There I was, living my life, feeling good, not a care in the world. Then, BAM, lightning bolt to the arse. How embarrassing.
I had made it out alive through the holidays, with their rainy days, crowds looking at Rose Parade floats, and the mass of tourists and humanity at the Farmer’s Market in L.A.
I dodged a cold that infected my daughter, then my wife.
I was made of steel. Rock solid.
I refinished a kitchen table. I started building a bench from reclaimed wood. I could have been a lumberjack and toppled trees with my manly bare hands.
Then I went for PFTs.
And failed. With a capital “L” for loser.
Blow, blow, blow, keep it going. Go, go, go. Take a breath. ARGGHHHHHHHHHHH.
Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200, but do collect your suitcase, iPad, UCLA t-shirt, laptop, stash of reserve meds, and nebs.
You’re going in.
Roger, five-zero to base. We’re over the drop zone. Jump, jump, jump.
And here I am five days later, an IV pump humming its annoying song next to me. And the drone of the hospital that reminds me of flying on a plane. Bite me.
The icing on the cake of pain was watching my Broncos choke when they had a 97% chance of winning at the end of regulation.
Oh, the blood. The suffering. The heartbreak.
That’s what I get for wearing metal pants.