Cystic fibrosis Term Analysis

It’s not like I don’t want to go. It’s just, quite literally, a matter of life or death. I can’t go off to Cabo, or anywhere for that matter, and risk not coming back. I can’t do that to my parents. Not now.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hearing the familiar wheeze of my lungs trying desperately to fill with air through the sea of mucus. Exhaling slowly, I slap a big Hallmark-greeting-card smile on my face before opening my eyes and pressing the enter key to go live.

Lying back, I pick up the worn panda resting on my pillows and wrap my arms tightly around him. Patches, my sister, Abby, named him. And what a fitting name that became. The years of coming in and out of the hospital with me have certainly taken their toll on him.

We’ve fought CF together for a freaking decade. Well, together from a safe distance, anyway. We can’t get too close to each other. For cystic fibrosis patients, cross-infection from certain bacteria strains is a huge risk. One touch between two CFers can literally kill the both of them.

There are a lot of things that piss me off about CF, but that’s not one of them. Pretty much all guys with CF are infertile, which at least means I don’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant and starting my own shit show of a family.

“Lighten up, Stella,” I say, sauntering to the door. “It’s just life. It’ll be over before we know it.”

“He’s choking! Poe’s choking!” I shout, tears filling my eyes as I fly down the hallway behind Julie, pulling on a face mask as I go. She bursts through the door ahead of me and goes to check the beeping monitor. I’m scared to look. I’m scared to see Poe suffering. I’m scared to see Poe…Fine.

Probably because for the first time in eight months, I’m a car ride away from home. Home. Where Hope and Jason are. Where my old classmates are slowly chugging their way to finals, shooting for whatever Ivy League school their parents selected for them. Where my bedroom, my freaking life, really, sits empty and unlived in.

He stops, leg floating off the edge. One more step and he would have fallen. One more step and he would have…

But as I roll over and turn out the light, I realize for the first time in a long time, I don’t really feel alone.

“You ever think about, I don’t know…traveling the world or something?” I look back down to see number 27, “Sistine Chapel with Abby.” No line through it.

Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.

I think about that very last breath. Sucking for air. Pulling and pulling and getting nothing. I think about my chest muscles ripping and burning, absolutely useless. No air. No nothing. Just black.

“She’d make a wish and she’d never, ever tell me what it was. She used to joke that if she said it out loud, it would never come true.” The tiny pinpoints of light twinkle in the distance, calling out to me, as if Abby is out there now. “But I knew. She wished for new lungs for me.”

“I never even hugged him. Never. Don’t touch! Don’t stand too close. Don’t, don’t, don’t!” I scream out, hysterical, coughing, dizzy. “He was my best friend and I never hugged him.” And I never will. The feeling is so horribly familiar, I can’t stand it.

We need that touch from the one we love, almost as much as we need air to breathe. I never understood the importance of touch, his touch…until I couldn’t have it.