Columns

I can’t separate my physical malady from my mental diseases. Cystic fibrosis, depression, and anxiety are all linked, and they’re all separate. I think of my blend of comorbidities as a morbid sort of smoothie. I can tell what is going on whenever I don’t feel well, but a…

I talk about my life with a double-lung transplant regularly. Sharing the double-edged sword of transplant during National Donate Life Month may help others see how this life can be bittersweet. There are highs and lows and seasons of struggle and victory, each one powerful in its own way.

I am writing this from my bedroom — trapped. Like a character in a movie. Or Jim Gaffigan when he talks about being outnumbered. This is my SOS letter to you, The Column Reader, saying: “Send carrier pigeons. Send string cheese snacks. Send Supernanny. Send help.” I am…

I just had surgery again, and now more people will follow me. I don’t want to write about the surgery (again) because it’s the same one I had a few months ago. Even so, a few months from now, when I’m no longer bemoaning my moaning or showing…

Our vulnerabilities should be celebrated, but they seldom are in the workplace. Hiding our disabilities may feel like the only solution at times. After losing my previous job, I never thought I’d get another interview, let alone be hired again. It’s been five years since I’ve been active as…

This is what I need. I’m going to tell you instead of my doctors, because that’s the life of a chronic patient. Even though I will tell my team, and I adore them, their hands are tied, because I am not a whole person. Instead, I am chunks and pieces,…

March is a heavy month. Like clockwork, physical and emotional symptoms seem to erupt out of nowhere. Four years ago this month I almost died. On an unconscious level, our bodies remember the trauma we’ve endured. March 2017 was the most difficult month of my life. I’ve never fought…

It’s not my birthday or my lung transplant anniversary or anything. But today, I’m thinking about being old-ish. I’m thinking about how Mom realized my life expectancy in college biology, and how I realized it in middle school biology. I’m thinking about the times I drove myself nuts by…

“I am sick of being a woman,” I say far too often. “Especially a sick one.” Maybe you’ve read this before. I’ve probably written it. But it begs repeating. It’s hard seeking healthcare as a woman because our concerns are quick to be dismissed, our symptoms swept under the rug.

Chadwick Boseman is dead, and I’m going to write about it. He has been dead for seven months now, so this isn’t breaking news. Even so, I remember exactly when it happened. It was the same day my Aunt Joyce died, and I remember thinking how strange it…