Last Saturday Megan and I ran 18 miles. That’s what our training plan called for. It wasn’t pretty. We had to stop countless times so I could cough and get the thick, colorful focus out of my lungs. We had to take breaks and walk cause I couldn't catch my breath going up hills. We had to adapt our training run because I wasn't at my best. But nonetheless we continued and finished. Four days later I was at Beth Israel Medical Center waiting for a PICC line. The first step in what would be a week long stint as an in-patient and 1-2 more of home IVs. In the CF world, what we call a tune-up.
That feeling I had during the 18 miles was nothing new. It’s pretty much of how I’ve felt during my training runs for the past month. Full of coughing and mucus. Full of stopping to spit. Full of running at a slower pace just to make sure I could get through the runs. Full of not being able to enjoy what I love most. In fact, two weeks ago I went into such a coughing fit that another runner stopped to check on me. For the first time in my life, it was so bad that someone else took time to see if I was alright. I nodded and said, “Yea, just working some things out,” but I knew that something wasn’t right. The orals and nebulizers we’d tried weren’t working. I couldn’t kick whatever was growing in my lungs. I knew that something else needed to be done. I knew that it was time for a tune-up and possibly a hospitalization.
That's when I decided it was time to come to the doctor. The results of my visit weren't great. My x-ray wasn’t as clear, my lung function was down. My mucus was thick and colorful and full bacteria. Shortness of breath and wheezing continued. Whether or not I needed a tune-up was not even on the table for conversation. The only conversation that took place was what day I wanted to come in. At that point, many thoughts and emotions ran through my head. Sadness, frustration, disgust, and annoyance. Regardless of how many times I’ve been admitted or the fact that I know this is what’s best for me, hearing that you need to be admitted to the hospital sucks. I try so, so hard to fight and beat this disease, but at the end of the day it leaves me feeling like regardless of what I do it’s not always in my control. A feeling of helplessness and loss of control. A feeling I don't like to feel, but every so often peaks its head out. From my perspective there was nothing more that I could have done. Yes, life was busy. Work and life have been crazy and I’d been training for a marathon, but I was still getting rest, doing my treatments, eating right, and exercising. This time it just wasn’t enough and there was nothing I could do. I needed to rest. I needed additional medication and treatment. I needed a break and that’s exactly what a hospitalization does. It forces me to take a break from life.
It’s been 5 days in the hospital and I’m starting to feel better. I’m sleeping through the night, not waking up in coughing fits. I’m bringing up less mucus during treatment. It’s not as colorful or thick. I can once again take deep breathes without it hurting. My lungs are opening and my spirits are rising. In a few days, I’ll walk out of here feeling stronger than I’ve felt in a long time. I’ll walk out of here with head held high, determined to not come back for a long, long time. I’ll walk out of here with a renewed perspective and outlook. I’ll walk out of here with a smile on my face ready to get back to the life I love.
That's when I decided it was time to come to the doctor. The results of my visit weren't great. My x-ray wasn’t as clear, my lung function was down. My mucus was thick and colorful and full bacteria. Shortness of breath and wheezing continued. Whether or not I needed a tune-up was not even on the table for conversation. The only conversation that took place was what day I wanted to come in. At that point, many thoughts and emotions ran through my head. Sadness, frustration, disgust, and annoyance. Regardless of how many times I’ve been admitted or the fact that I know this is what’s best for me, hearing that you need to be admitted to the hospital sucks. I try so, so hard to fight and beat this disease, but at the end of the day it leaves me feeling like regardless of what I do it’s not always in my control. A feeling of helplessness and loss of control. A feeling I don't like to feel, but every so often peaks its head out. From my perspective there was nothing more that I could have done. Yes, life was busy. Work and life have been crazy and I’d been training for a marathon, but I was still getting rest, doing my treatments, eating right, and exercising. This time it just wasn’t enough and there was nothing I could do. I needed to rest. I needed additional medication and treatment. I needed a break and that’s exactly what a hospitalization does. It forces me to take a break from life.
It’s been 5 days in the hospital and I’m starting to feel better. I’m sleeping through the night, not waking up in coughing fits. I’m bringing up less mucus during treatment. It’s not as colorful or thick. I can once again take deep breathes without it hurting. My lungs are opening and my spirits are rising. In a few days, I’ll walk out of here feeling stronger than I’ve felt in a long time. I’ll walk out of here with head held high, determined to not come back for a long, long time. I’ll walk out of here with a renewed perspective and outlook. I’ll walk out of here with a smile on my face ready to get back to the life I love.
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