acceptance;;

My head is a lead balloon.

That's the colistimethate sodium talking, drug one of five in my medicinal cocktail provided thoughtfully for me, patient #18561596etcetc, by the doctors at Tampa General Hospital.

It wasn't easier the second time around, like I had originally thought. I was under the impression that life altering news is easier to take after being dealt the blow once already. And, per usual, I was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

The transfer of care to Florida from Massachusetts has been a bureaucratic nightmare. I am covered head to toe in insurance bullshit. I've got stacks of contradictory paperwork, physicians who may or may not take my insurance, but have been assigned to me regardless, only to find out that those physicians can't or won't see me, but I can't sign up for a NEW physician for three months. But to see a specialist, I must have a new physician. Now. But really, yesterday would have been better.

It's enough to make a girl have to stop and catch her breath.

And that leads me to conundrum numero dos:

My lung function is at an all-time record low - 26%. My weight, too, is lower than ever at 99.7 lbs.

Weight loss coincides with a decrease in lung function, so, easy - gain weight, improve breathing.

To gain the weight, I need to remove my gallbladder.

To remove my gallbladder, I need to .... improve my lung function! Or face being stuck on a ventilator post surgery with lungs that can't recover from the trauma of being put under anesthesia!

It's a textbook catch-22, and I can't seem to figure out where to start. Neither can my doctors. So not only was I admitted, but they threw out the ugliest phrase I know.

Lung transplant.

I wasn't ready for it three years ago at twenty, and I wasn't ready for it yesterday, despite my belief that the second time around would be easier.

It was not.

But despite my propensity for melodramatic blog posts, I'm not convinced I'm there yet. It took a minute for my mind to adjust to the shock, and digest that mouthful yet again, but once the doctor left the room, and the tears slowed down, on turned a light bulb.

The best kind of light bulb: hope. Or maybe denial, I'm not sure...

I'm just not convinced my lungs can't recover, I'd like to believe I could survive the gallbladder surgery, and I'd really like to believe that once it's out, my weight will go up, my lung function will increase, and I'll be known as The Girl Who Avoided A Lung Transplant Twice.

Yet hope is at times contradictory with acceptance. Acceptance that my lungs are fragile, and it might be time to consider the next step in the disease process; out with the old, in with the new. But yet, acceptance is a fine line away from admitting defeat and slowly becoming okay with that. I want to accept what CF throws my way, but not give up in the process.

And then, today, another thought came to mind, one I have long forgotten. In yoga, there's the idea that the present moment is the only moment; that our minds focus on the past, or the future, on ideas, fears, past experiences, or future anxieties as a distraction to being present. So where does that put this? Do I take this hospital admission at face value? Focusing solely on improving my lung function day by day, and dealing with a transplant if and when it unfolds?

Ideally, yes. But a huge weakness of mine is being 'in the moment' and staying present. I fret, I worry, I over-analyze, I bring up past events and mull over them, I think about the future and project what will/won't happen.

Yet, I'd like to try to accept that right now, at this moment, I am not a transplant patient, I'm merely in the hospital undergoing a routine admission. I'll try to take it day by day, hour by hour if I have to, and not allow the fear of what may or may not happen cripple my mindset and overwhelm my ability to get well.

I would also like to remember that whatever does end up happening is okay. An increase in lung function, a decrease, a gallbladder removal, or a lung transplant. The goal for me isn't to live in fear of the progression of this disease, but to live with CF, presently.

....That said, I really would enjoy a full recovery and a successful surgery and an increase in appetite and weight, and for my pants to fit again, and most of all, most of all, to put the words 'lung' and 'transplant' on separate back burners, and keep them there for as long as possible.

Is it wishful thinking?
Fuck yeah.

Do I care?
Fuck no.