True Confessions: Cystic Style

Okay, I have a confession to make. A big one, really, because for me to confess this means that I have to admit that I'm not always a really positive thinker, that sometimes things just come together and kind of overwhelm me. But I think I can admit that much to you guys, at least, since you've read about so many of my highs and lows of this rollercoaster we call "life with CF," and at least some of you have probably even experienced a few of those peaks and valleys for yourself. So I think I can trust you all with my dirty little secret, even if it means taking a deep breath and just admitting it.

I cried this morning.

I cried, and it wasn't so much for the people we've lost recently (although they have been on my mind, of course) or for the addition of another new CF machine into my household (although that kind of blows too, no pun intended), or even for the fact that I'm frustrated with waiting and with these constant infections. It really wasn't about any of those things, even though any one of them would have been a good enough reason to shed some tears. But it wasn't about that; it was just that I'm really, really, really scared right now. Scared about transplant and about the unknowns that come with it, scared about big things like the recovery and infection, scared about little things like leaving my puppy when I go to the hospital, and really just. plain. scared. About everything, I guess.

And so I cried.

I didn't cry much really (although maybe I should have - a long and hard emotional release might be exactly what I need right now). It was really just a couple drops of water, appearing like dewdrops out of thin air, then disappearing just as quickly as they touched the warm sunlight of my cheeks. Just a few short breaths to regain some of my composure, a few quick moments of sadness and fear followed by a comforting snuggle with an ever-willing Shorkie. A moment of darkness and then a return to some semblance of light, of trust, of peace.

I do trust that lungs will come for me at the right the time. I trust that this transplant is part of a larger plan laid out by a power far wiser than I am. I trust that I will recover and I've made lists of all the amazing things I plan to do after my transplant. I plan to live, and I plan to cherish every second and every breath.

That doesn't mean that I don't cry, though.

I guess nothing in life is ever certain, and some things we just can't really ever fully prepare ourselves for. I know so many beautiful, strong people (CF and non-CF) who have faced transplants and other obstacles with heads held high, backs to the wind, and collars turned up against the cold. They've faced these challenges and they've made their own roads, and I admire each and every one of them for their courage and their grace in the face of such frankly scary moments.

And yet maybe every single one of these wonderful people was, in fact, hiding in their hearts the secret of their last mini-cry. Of that one moment when things became a little too much for them, and their smile broke for just an instant, their strength wavered ever so slightly, and a few renegade tears escaped to run down their very beautiful, and very human, faces. Maybe.

As for me, all I know is that I cried. And that right now, in the aftermath of my tears, I'm still feeling kind of deflated and just a little numb. Maybe that means it's not the best time to be blogging, or maybe that makes it perfect. And maybe I'll cry again later, when this hits me again in some way. Or maybe I won't.

I guess it'll just be my little secret.