Brad Dell,  —

As a child I was a kicker, the type no nurse wants to be near when wielding needles and throat swabs. Eventually I’d relax my shrieking when Mom or Dad held my hand and called me brave. The nurses were then more warmly received. To be safe, they came bearing…

I’ve been trying to write more. I promise. But my tacrolimus dose is pretty up there, and it’s getting on my nerves. Literally. Nerve pain from the medication, an immunosuppressant used in lung transplant management, has me feeling like I’m driving diabetes lancets into my fingers with every…

Mom raised me to be a hungry reader, so it wasn’t long until I explored one of her favorite genres, Southern Gothic. Tales from this corner of the library are identified by distorted realities, eerie supernaturalism, eccentric characters, and sometimes abrupt violence. These elements are often bound together to critique…

After years in a backstage role at my high school theater, I was pulled aside by the program director and told that, upon researching cystic fibrosis (CF), her staff had deemed my health too unreliable for me to continue working on shows. The confrontation was unexpected. I’d never missed a…

For all the love I have for “Star Wars,” I could never get around to liking C-3PO. “Sir, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to 1!” the golden droid complained in “The Empire Strikes Back” as Han Solo’s ship, the Millennium Falcon, weaved…

When we stop hiding our wounds and instead make our pain a wellspring of compassion for others, we become “wounded healers” — hurt people who help hurt people. That’s what Henri Nouwen described in his book “The Wounded Healer.” My copy’s pages are eroded by countless pen and highlighter…

At the opening of Judeo-Christian Scriptures, the Creator lovingly forms humankind, then crafts and blesses the Sabbath, a sacred day set aside for rest. Rest filled humankind’s first full day. Before people were doing, they were being, and for this alone they were beloved. It’s the portrait of a…

For two decades, plummeting pulmonary function percentages terrorized me, weight flew from my body, and my diagnoses list stretched longer than a CVS receipt. Trips to the clinic featured grim reports detailing my body’s ruin: estimated organ expiration dates, fistfuls of prescription slips to counteract the destructive side…

I’m beginning to rethink the sources of my fatigue. Yes, sickness and physical activity are still real sources of exhaustion, but I’m realizing I’ve neglected a deeper flavor of struggle.   Many of us sick folk are familiar with the “spoon theory.” The analogy goes…

Every week, to confront old wounds and maybe even heal, I open my mind so my subconscious can push memories to the surface. I feel the emotions there, recall the senses, and meditate on how they drive me today. Then, I release them. Yesterday, I meditated on humiliating experiences, inviting…