Aunt Erica

Tears sprung to my mom’s eyes as she squealed with joy. She always cries reading Mother’s Day cards but this time was different. My brother and sister-in-law revealed they were expecting: surprise, grandma!

My whole family jumped up to congratulate and celebrate. Yet in that moment I couldn’t help but get a knot in my throat at how bittersweet the news was for me. Of course I’m thrilled for them and happy to become an aunt. But along with hugs and kisses that big reveal also came with the stark reality of just how different my brother and my lives were. That right as he is growing and flourishing, I am crumbling.

It’s not like I didn’t know this would happen. He was born perfectly healthy, not even a carrier of the CF gene. We were on opposite sides of the Punnett square. And now our lives are going in opposite directions.

I’m genuinely so happy for him. He started a new job at a big-time company with a huge salary bump, he’s finishing his Master’s, and now he’s becoming a father. But I also sometimes feel envious and a little bit bitter. To watch your sibling thrive in all aspects of life while you struggle to maintain balance walking quickly or have to count out your pills for the day is…I don’t even know the words.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to have children, and I’m not a big kid-person anyways, so it worked in my favor. No bitterness there. But the fact that mere hours after that announcement my brother had to help me walk into the ocean is a sick irony.

When I finally met him, my nephew (I totally called it was going to be a boy), it was magnificent. He’s so funny with his silly faces and his nonstop noises. He’s very talkative, which I’ll claim he got from me, thank you very much.

“He’s so locked into you,” my dad said. I rolled my eyes. But over the next few days, I was beginning to see it. I’m not good with holding babies. But the first time I met him and held him, he fell asleep in my arms. And when other people were holding him, I’d catch him staring at me.

I was playing with him and as he was smiling and giggling away tears unexpectedly sprung to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away in surprise. What was happening to me? It had suddenly hit me that I didn’t know how much of his life I would see. I didn’t know how many years I could play with him or if I could watch him grow up into a young man. I wondered when my brother would explain what was wrong with Aunt Erica.

It will only get harder as I become sicker. But at least I’m alive to meet him. Hopefully, one day I’ll be able to have a conversation with him about it all.

Ready to Return

It’s been a year since I’ve written on this blog. Not that I have dedicated readers wondering where the hell I went. Not in a narcissistic or cliche way, but I truly did create this as a personal outlet with no interest in attracting attention. A place to write freely, however and whenever I wanted. Where I could easily scroll back over my life in my self-reflecting moments (of which I have many). A digital narrative of the crazy experiences and lessons over the years.

I’ve been thinking of returning for awhile. And with the start of a New Year, I figured there’s no better time.

Why did I step away for so long? I couldn’t handle it. Literally. After suffering permanent ear damage, looking at a screen and typing for hours was hard enough at my job. I couldn’t do it in my off time. There were so many words and thoughts I wanted to scream out in sheer anger and sorrow and frustration for what my body and mind were going through every second of every day. But broadcasting it here seemed too much–even though I’ve been incredibly candid on this blog.

But I think I’m ready to start talking about some of those things now. One big thing last year taught me was that all of my feelings are valid–even the ugly ones–and I shouldn’t suppress them. I just needed time and patience.

They won’t be fun posts. They’re going to be hard to write. But life isn’t all filtered snapshots of living your best life on Instagram. Living your truth isn’t about posting inspirational quotes or motivational hashtags. It’s about being honest–even when you’re in a downward spiral or a dark place.

I hope when I look back at these posts that they help me and, maybe, they’ll help a stray reader too.

My Body, the Resilient Warrior

My body is strong. It’s been through a hell of a lot.

You see, it’s been fighting since day one, as soon as my diseased lungs expanded for the first time. A relentless slog forward. Despite the premature death sentence and debilitating hardships that awaited, it continued unfazed.

Sure, other diseases jumped on throughout the years to hitch a ride. It had to adjust and change course a few times for these new permanent (uninvited) passengers. Celiac and acid reflux–they were annoyingly picky, always loudly complaining about the food. Hypothyroidism was quiet and unassuming. Diabetes was an unpredictable brat whose tantrums would force the whole system to immediately cater to its needs. But still my body persisted.

Life threw many punches at my body, determined to beat it into submission and break its spirit. A CF exacerbation that lasted an entire summer. A PTSD-inducing nightmare hospital stint. A six-month stretch of mono. A painfully vicious case of pneumonia.

My body took all of the blows. It stumbled. It bled. It weakened (the pneumonia was a direct hit to the left lung). It struggled (some days it’s hard to breathe). It even fell (looking at you, quarter-life crisis). But it always rose–bruises, battle scares and all–to endure and welcome another day.

Over time, it’s healed. It’s overcome. It’s evolved. It’s grown. It’s thrived. It’s surpassed expectations. Its accomplishments have been astounding: climbing European towers, walking in the Rockies, running a 5K, twisting into yoga poses, snorkeling in Central America, parasailing above the sea, dancing all night–the list goes on.

Three solid decades. It’s been fighting for 30 years. And it’s still fighting. A high-risk medicine I took may, in fact, be the biggest physical blow yet. It permanently damaged my inner ears, throwing my entire equilibrium off. The brain and body will eventually adapt. I may never heal completely or return to how I once was. That’s petrifying to me.

But I need to maintain hope, respect, and trust in my body. Most importantly, I need to remember how resilient it truly is on this bumpy ride.

A Beautiful Disaster

Everything in my life was so fantastic this past year.

I moved into D.C. proper and absolutely loved it. I checked off a huge item on my bucket list by seeing John Mayer in concert. I enjoyed the dating scene.  I gave a speech at my hospital on living with cystic fibrosis. I marched on the National Mall and protested at the White House.

I also celebrated turning 30 for the entirety of 2017. How? I finally visited New Orleans with one of my best friends (who also turned 30 this year); I did a NYC weekend getaway with my aunts and mom for a dual festivity (her 60th, my 30th); I surprised one of my best friends at her own 30th birthday bash; and, to top it all off, I went to Paris for my actual birthday week.

Aaaaaand then everything crashed and burned when I came back to the states. Legitimately every aspect of my life. Welcome to 30, Erica.

In my work life, four people on my team quit. This happened months ago, granted, but hiring replacements was taking forever. After somewhat managing for a period of time, the lack of employees plus the (still) high expectations and workload minus the required time and training equaled crashing into a brick wall and promptly drowning (my two-week Paris vacation surely fast forwarded this outcome). I was now doing the job of three people–and somehow found myself in the center of advertising, a field I always dreaded and avoided like the plague.

In my physical life, Paris got to my body. A bad sinus infection quickly traveled to my lungs. I had a fever for four days and a painful cough that produced blood. Instead of watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, I watched a nurse hook up my PICC line that morning for a two-week course of IV antibiotics. Oh, and turns out one of the medications permanently damaged my inner ear. Thus began my intense vertigo and balance troubles–the conclusion of which is still TBD.

In my love life, I ended a two-month courtship after realizing I deserved better. I’d been unhappy for several weeks but kept holding on because of the serendipitous way we met. After a deep conversation with my nurse about the future and finding love–“Erica, you’ll find someone who doesn’t care about all of this”–I had to go to the lab to get bloodwork. He was my phlebotomist (so fitting) and we immediately clicked. Even though we were very different physically–he was bald, black, and covered in tattoos–we had a lot in common. We managed to finish each other’s sentences after only a week of talking.

“So why are you still single?” he asked at one point. ONLY THE WORST QUESTION EVER. I told him I didn’t really know, but I did push people away because of my health. I told him about my medical situation. And his response was exactly what I needed to hear: “Well, I disagree with you pushing people away because of it–someone will love you no matter what–but I can tell that this has made you strong.”

Being in the medical field, he didn’t care or mind one bit. In fact, he already knew what a PICC line and breathing treatment were. He called me every night he got off of work at the hospital. We bonded over our love for the same music and the Yankees. I called him from New York. He called me from Arizona.

“We’re moving very slow, but I like it,” I told my friends. “This one feels different to me.” He was so direct and open–apparently many military men are like this (he was a Navy vet). He seemed to fall hard and fast, which scared me. He was the most romantic person I’ve been involved with. After travel kept us apart for weeks, we were both out in D.C. with friends. My phone rang shortly after I got home from a friend’s party.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Home.”

“I’ll be there in 5 minutes. And I want you to know that I’m going to kiss you.”

Sure enough, there was a knock on my door. I opened it and he grabbed me and kissed me on my doorstep. Our first kiss.

Then some unattractive qualities started to expose themselves. He blew off our second date because he was hungover. He’d make plans with me but forget he had prior commitments. He couldn’t handle conflict and immediately shut down when I voiced my annoyance at his flakiness and disrespect of my time. But it was so crazy that our paths crossed immediately after that conversation with my nurse. I believe in signs and I couldn’t let this obvious one go. Didn’t our meeting happen for a reason? It couldn’t be for nothing.

Then he did one of the shittiest things ever: he stood me up on my birthday plans, which by the way, was his idea in the first place. Furthermore, he didn’t speak to or see me when I returned from Paris. Yet, shortly before I left, he claimed he wanted me to be his girlfriend. That’s when I called it quits.

I knew he wasn’t a bad person. I was so happy to find another person who didn’t care about my diseases. He had qualities that I really liked, but I didn’t deserve this treatment. It was time for me to stick to my guns and practice what I preach. I won’t settle and I fucking mean it. Maybe that was the reason behind all of this? I’m proud of myself for not only knowing my worth but sticking to it unapologetically. I know I made the right decision.

So that’s where I’m at in a nutshell as I begin 2018. It’s all a cycle. The ups and downs of life. Being on the up for a whole year is actually pretty amazing when you think about it. Now it’s time to accept the cascade down and learn to live in this space just the same.

Learning to Walk Again

Stay focused. One foot in front of the other. Go slow. You can do this.

These are the encouraging remarks I whisper to myself as I wobble down the street. I can barely walk straight. Everything around me is bouncing and shaking. The ground feels so unstable. In reality, it’s just me–I’m the earthquake. So this is 30, huh?

I knew my 30s would be harder with my health, but this I did not see coming. My body is now literally rejecting gravity. And there’s nothing I can do about it but wait.

A fair warning: If you’re looking for an inspiring or amusing blog post, this isn’t one of them–so I suggest you keep browsing. I’m fresh out of snark.

Rarely do I complain about my chronic illnesses. Rarely do I dwell in depression. Rarely do I fill with anger. Rarely do I fret or cry or snap over my terminal disease. Rarely do I take a day for granted. And then shit goes so far south that I begin to lose it. All of that gratitude and peace and positivity that I cultivate year-round starts to fray. Now, it takes a lot for me to fall to this point. But here we are.

I took a bold risk when I went on a solo trip to Paris to celebrate my 30th birthday. (I’ll finish that series later when I’m in the right mental space). The irony is the trip was all about appreciating my life and gratitude for everything I’ve overcome and for even making it to 30–an age that was once the average life expectancy for someone with cystic fibrosis. I knew I’d get sick after and have to go on IV. That’s par for the course.

But this time I went on some new IV medications. One of which happened to be a high-risk medication. It isn’t common, but the drug can cause permanent damage to the kidneys and inner ears. I always talked my way out of this class of drugs before because I’m a diabetic and my kidneys are already under strain. But it was Thanksgiving and I was so sick and the doctors said I had new types of bacteria in my lungs. So I read the warnings on the paperwork, eyed the consequences with trepidation, took a deep breath, and signed on the line. It probably won’t happen to me, I thought.

Two weeks later my lung infection cleared up. I hooked up the drug for the last time and I went to bed. When I woke up I had this strange vertigo. I could barely walk. Admittedly, I had this a couple times before but it usually went away within minutes. Except this time it stayed. Three weeks later it’s still constant.

In my gut I knew it was from the medication. It damaged my ears. My CF doctor dismissed it as some viral infection. Because those serious side effects rarely happen, right? 1 in 1,000 they say. A week later, after decongestants did nothing, I went to an ENT. Essentially the answer was they can’t prove the exact cause, but the timing with the high-risk medicine is awfully suspicious. “My hunch is it’s from the medicine. All we can do is wait to see how your body recovers. Eventually the brain learns to adapt and adjust.”

Right. Real cool, Universe. As if I didn’t have a hard enough time fucking breathing and keeping my sugars down and avoiding certain foods. Now I have to worry about walking up stairs, or standing up from a chair quickly, or car rides, or weaving through crowds.

What the hell. I’m sick of this shit.

Deep down I trust God and the Universe so completely. I also believe everything happens for a reason. I know somewhere in this muddled mess is a lesson. But for the love of God I can’t see it right now. All I know is I’m pissed off and upset. Every day I’m on the verge of tears. Frankly, I have a right to be. I’ve learned that it’s OK to get angry and to be sad. You have to acknowledge and accept and feel those emotions.

The what-ifs are killing me. I’m trying to prevent my thoughts from spiraling into despair and anxiety about the future. How will I learn to function like this? Will I be able to run or do yoga again? Can I swim or walk on the beach or have sex or dance like I once did? Everyone tells me this won’t be permanent. While I do believe them, I’m also not sure how well I will recover. I doubt I’ll ever be the same again. Permanent damage is permanent damage. What’s done is done.

What’s giving me hope is that I have seen some slight progress in the past two weeks. Granted, it’s also been Christmas vacation so I’ve been resting more and haven’t been in my routine. But I’ll take any progress at this point.

The two things this “situation” is teaching me: patience and presence. I have to be patient while my body heals itself–to whatever extend that may be. I have to be incredibly mindful of every present move I make–literally, so I don’t fall over. And yes, this is also teaching me a new level of gratitude. In case you’re wondering, there’s nothing more humbling than losing your equilibrium.

OK, I guess this post does end with a little positive spin. My mood and body fluctuates day to day, to be honest. The other day I was in a very bad head space about all of this. Then my friend and old roommate Laura invited me to dinner. I knew continuing to sulk was a bad decision. So I got off my ass and I’m glad I did. Laura and I started reflecting on the year and how fantastic it was personally for both of us.

And I have to remember, even though it’s ending on the sourest note in many years, 2017 was a great year for me overall. I need to hold on to that–now more than ever. In fact, this summer I wrote this on my Instagram post: “There’s been so much good lately and I’m enjoying and appreciating this time because I know it’s all temporary.”

God I hope I get there again. But for now, 2018 is going to be a year of healing.

 

 

 

 

This Is 30 – A Solo Paris Adventure (Part II)

DAY 1

I love the sound of French. That’s why I decided to study it in school–for 7 years. Although you wouldn’t know it now. Certain words are coming back to me while I’m here in Paris. I’m trying my best to speak the language, but I’m super rusty and intimated to talk.

The waitress in this adorable Café Kléber–conveniently located right down the street from my Airbnb–is kind enough to entertain me by switching between French and English so I can practice yet still understand her. She’s wearing all black, tattoos scattering her arms, and quickly skirts around to the customers.

Somehow I’m not dying of exhaustion. I didn’t sleep on the plane and I know the first rule of traveling abroad is not to sleep when you land. You have to stay awake to adjust to the time zone. I think the adrenaline of actually being in Europe for the first time in almost 10 years is keeping me energized. Fortunately, my Airbnb–a tiny but perfectly located apartment–was ready just as I got there. I set my belongings down, did a breathing treatment, washed my face, and headed out for coffee.

This cappuccino is amazing. It could be because any coffee after being awake for more than 24 hours tastes excellent, but every cappuccino I have in Paris is freakin’ delicious. Their foam tastes heavenly and comes with a dusting of chocolate flakes or powder on top–and I don’t even drink cappuccino in the States. True to French culture, my dishes are served as courses–brought out one at a time in no rush. It serves as my first reminder to enjoy and savor the moment. After the coffee, I enjoy a carrot-ginger coconut milk soup. Then I indulge in a meat and cheese spread. This may be the most random breakfast I’ve ever had, but I don’t care and the waitress isn’t judging.

This café is so quintessentially French that I feel like I’m in a movie, or a dream. Soft jazz music plays in the background as I listen to the melodic French conversations around me. I’m at a booth by the window–a prime people watching spot. The sunlight illuminates Parisians in a beautiful glow as they pass by and bounces off the yellow-colored fall foliage. A basketful of fresh bread is unloaded in front of me. I look around and drink in the lovely scene.

Paris is one of the best cities to people watch. They’re so animated when they talk. I notice during my trip that I never see French people on their phone while at the table–not once. They’re so invested and present in what they’re doing and who they’re with. It’s absolutely refreshing and a far cry from modern social etiquette in the U.S. The fashion is fantastic and there’s always something interesting to catch the eye. For example, I saw a man randomly loading a huge cactus onto a van. I also saw a group of old men playing bocce ball in a park.

After my luxuriously long breakfast, I take advantage of the sunny blue skies and pop over to see the Eiffel Tower. It’s just as I remembered it–standing strong in all its glory. I venture over to Rue Cler and browse the open-air markets. Fresh flowers and food line the street. I pick three bright orange clementines for later and buy a delicious almond pastry for now.

I continue walking and cross Ponte Alexandre, where I stop in my tracks for the first time. The area provides a striking 360-degree view of the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Palais, and down the Seine. I forgot just how truly beautiful this city is. It’s sheer grandeur and magnificence. I stand there for a few minutes looking around and taking a mental picture. On the other side of the bridge, I enter the Petit Palais, which is a free art museum. Miraculously, I manage to stay awake for almost 36 hours but by 9 p.m. I can’t fight sleep anymore.

There’s so much passion here. From the conviction in conversation to the adoration of food to the pride in wine. Paris is the city of love, after all. I’m trying to savor the moment. France is also a lesson in patience. Americans always rush. Here, it’s relax and enjoy. These are perfect lessons for my solo trip because this journey on my 30th birthday week is all about appreciating life.

 

This Is 30 – A Solo Paris Adventure

Turning 30 is a big deal for me. But it’s not for the same reason as most people. As I always say, aging is a privilege–so I never despise or fear it. I welcome each new year of life with open arms of gratitude. Thirty is very meaningful and important to me. Because many people living with cystic fibrosis (CF) don’t make it to 30. In fact, when I come across someone who knows about CF it’s usually because they knew someone with it–knew being the key word. The story they share usually ends with the person dying in their 20s. I don’t enjoy hearing that, but it’s a stark reminder of the reality of the disease as well as how fortunate I am. When I was first diagnosed at age 6, the average life expectancy was 30. Now I’m there. I survived my 20s. And that deserves one hell of a celebration.

I knew I wanted to celebrate not only for myself, but for all the people with CF who weren’t able to see their 30th year. I wanted to do something special but I had absolutely no idea what. By early September I still had no plans. Until one day when I was talking to my co-worker and it hit me.

“I think I want to go to Paris for my 30th birthday,” I blurted out.

“Paris is never a bad idea,” she replied. “I have a friend who lives there. She’ll have you over and show you around. It’ll be great.”

Once I said it outloud, I knew I had to do it. I hadn’t left the U.S. in six years. I hadn’t been to Europe in almost 10. I was sick and tired of waiting for other people to be ready or have the funds or vacation time to go with me. So I made an executive decision to go solo. I finally asked myself ‘what are you waiting for?’ Life is too short and time is precious. Now, I had only done a solo trip once before to San Francisco–which was an absolute dream, by the way. Even though I studied abroad in London, I never did a trip abroad alone. But I had been to Paris once before, I knew the language a little bit, and it was a huge city. I figured I’d be all right. A few days later I booked my flight and an Airbnb near the Eiffel Tower. Then I had to tell my parents.

I waited to tell them until after I booked the trip because I was worried they’d try to talk me out of it. But they took the news surprisingly well. The only thing my dad asked was, “Are you going to take your Vest?”

Admittedly, I did hardly any preparation for this trip. This was actually on purpose because (based on my successful solo San Fran experience) I wanted to be super lax in my plans and go where the wind took me. True to her word, my co-worker connected me with her Parisienne friend–our exact meeting day and place TBD. I booked a three-hour food tour off the recommendation of another co-worker a few days before I left. And lastly, a friend who just finished her master’s in Paris sent me a long, detailed list of recommendations. In an ironic twist of fate, my best friend’s friend was also going to Paris for the week alone to celebrate her birthday. We planned to meet up once we both arrived.

The only must-do things on my list: finally go to the Musée D’Orsay, see Sacre Coeur again, get a crêpe and macaroons, drink loads of wine, eat loads of cheese, wander quaint city streets, and sit leisurely at a café to people watch.

So with all that in mind, I jumped on a red eye and hoped I wouldn’t be taken.

 

 

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad 3-0?

I’m turning 30 in less than three months–and I think I’m having a little bit of an identity crisis as a result.

Mind you, this is nowhere near the level of my quarter-life crisis. I’m not in a hospital bed, I’m employed, and I’m not living with my parents. This crisis, instead, is about re-examining and reflecting on my life and what’s next. I think this is a normal process when hitting the big 3-0. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I know who I am–there’s no question there–but I’m not sure what I want anymore. What happened to the fearless, ambitious 22-year-old me who moved to NYC without a job or an apartment ready to conquer the world?

I feel like that drive has slowly faded over the years, like a tree losing its leaves. Piece by piece parts broke off and floated down to the ground, where the environment was much more stable and safe. It wasn’t noticeable at first. I accepted the changing season. Until one day–when 30 started quickly approaching–I realized my budding life suddenly felt stunted.

From the outside it may seem crazy. But, Erica, didn’t you just move into D.C. proper with a new roommate? Aren’t you having a good time exploring D.C. and getting to know the city better? Yes, all of those things are true. My first summer in D.C. has been one of the best in years. I’m having a blast. I love my new roommate. I adore my new neighborhood. My social life is thriving more than ever before. I’m having so much fun with my friends and venturing into the dating scene. I was so sure I would move to San Francisco, but now I honestly don’t know when I want to leave D.C.–or if SF is the right step anymore. So why does that scare the hell out of me?

Maybe it’s because I’m still just as stubborn and hard-headed as that 22-year-old ready to tackle the unknown. I never planned on moving to D.C. It was (yet another) huge leap of faith: I knew one person in the area and I didn’t even visit my office or meet my boss when I took the job that relocated me here. And I feel like I’ve just been going with the flow since that last risky move–which is fine, to a degree.

But a lot happened to that girl. That girl who was bursting with goals and determination. She experienced the brutal world of New York publishing–lay-offs, cutthroat co-workers, manipulation, and all–that left her quite jaded early on in her career. She acquired a vicious case of mono that knocked her on her ass both physically and emotionally–I have the PTSD and lung scars to prove it–that spiraled into a quarter-life crisis and complete reboot of her life. She was rejected by a man for her disease. She battled a horrifically painful case of pneumonia that permanently fucked up her left lung, whose pain is still present.

All of these experiences have made me as I am today. A little older, a little wiser, a little more cautious–but oh so grateful.

Because where there’s bad, there’s also good. The truth is most of it has been good. I was an online editor at one of the top publishing companies in the world. I worked at one of the biggest nonprofits in the U.S. I found myself traveling the country on video sets, directing a 12-time Emmy-winning cinematographer. I was given free airplane tickets to a dream San Francisco vacation. I enjoyed a French lover. I marched on the National Mall. I protested at the White House.

I’ve done so many amazing things beyond my wildest expectations. Maybe that’s why I feel stuck. What do you do when your dreams come true and then some?

When I reflect back on my 30 years, it feels like I’m living in high speed–cramming as much into life as possible. Which is exactly what I’ve always intended, because I know I’m on limited time. Cystic Fibrosis is my Night King (for all you Game of Thrones fans who get this reference)–marching slowly and relentlessly toward me. But unlike in the show, there is no special sword or dragon that can bring it down. It’s coming and I can’t stop it. I can only try to outrun it for as long as possible until my legs give out from under me.

Then I remember: The tree of life is never truly stunted. It’s full of renewal and rebirth–like the start of a decade. A new season will come, the tree will thrive once more, and the cycle resumes all over again.

Summer Lovin’

I’m enjoying dating for the first time ever.

I’ve been having such a great time during my first summer living in DC proper that I decided to kick it up a notch and jump into the dating pool again by reactivating my online dating profile. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate it and it makes me cringe. The difference is this time I really don’t give a fuck. I’m not laser focused on a relationship. I don’t care how many dates I go on. I’m having a blast this summer on my own and this time dating is just a fun supplement—kind of like drinking vodka Red Bulls.

I really didn’t think I’d hear back from guys. And I honestly didn’t give a fuck. But the funny (and surprising) thing is I heard back from A LOT of men. I’ve literally been going on multiple dates each weekend–and they usually all want to see me again, too. They’ve taken me out to dinner, volunteered to meet in my neighborhood, and bought me drinks.

Yesterday, I went on a second-date museum outing and booked a separate dinner date later that evening. When the museum guy said our date would extend into a fun evening of exploring D.C., I responded, “Oh, I have dinner plans later. I thought we would be done at the museum by then.” Whoops.

My roommate was also surprised how quickly I hit the dating scene running. “I thought you hated online dating?!” she exclaimed.

“I know, I do. But I’m just having fun,” I said.

This behavior is foreign to me too. I was always the reserved one who turned my nose up at flings and online dating. But once you take a French lover, there’s really no turning back.

I gotta tell you: It feels so relieving to not give a fuck. It really does. To not be all angst-y and analytical and stressed about dating. If this is 30 (which I will be in November), then sign me up!

The only point so far where I did get self-conscious and anxious was when the museum guy asked, “So I noticed you coughing on our first date and you are again today. Are you OK?”

Oh FUCK. Here we go. It’s harder to hide my cystic fibrosis as I get older–my lungs aren’t as healthy as they used to be and they’re often “junky.” A younger me would have made an excuse or lied in that moment. But I didn’t. “So I kind of always have a cough, because I have a genetic lung disease.” I answered sheepishly.

Now, I didn’t go into the FULL breakdown, i.e. it’s terminal and progressive and I probably won’t live past 55. Turns out I still give a little bit of a fuck. I explained that I have to take care of myself and take medications. “I was born with it and there’s no cure, so what can ya do?” I said shrugging and let the reality of the words fall where they may.

“Well, I don’t think that’s weird or anything,” he replied, to my genuine surprise. “So this kind of cough is normal for you then?”

I nodded. “Yes, for me it is. For a normal person it’s not.”

“OK,” he said matter-of-factly. I wondered if he would become a little more distant the rest of the date due to this new knowledge. But, in the car ride back, he grabbed and caressed my hand. I reciprocated.

“So, which museum are we going to next time?” he asked.

It’s tempting to settle with the first guy who doesn’t flinch hearing I have a chronic illness. But I’m not that girl anymore–I’m a grown-ass independent woman. So he dropped me at my door, and I promptly changed into a cute sundress and prepared for my next date.

 

A New D.C. Adventure

I was sad to leave Arlington. I loved the house, my roommates, the location, the neighborhood. It was perfect in my mind–except that the house was slowly killing me. It was dusty and moldy from years of neglect by the landlord, who was actually a slumlord. The signs were all there: my lung function had continuously declined since living there, I randomly developed terrible pneumonia, and I was getting bloody noses. But fear paralyzed me from change. I dreaded the prospect of living somewhere new with random roommates. What if the new place was tiny? What if it was loud at night? What if it was a sketchy area? What if the rent was too high? What if I didn’t get along with the people?

But I was tired of a house constantly falling apart. I was tired of my unemployed roommate cooking in the middle of the night with his girlfriend who basically moved in too. I was tired of a messy kitchen and of the stove being left on (it’s honestly a miracle we never burned the house down). I was tired of the copious white bros and lack of diversity in the neighborhood.

Then one day my roommate Laura, who became a close friend, asked if I would consider moving into D.C. with her. Even though I never pictured myself living in D.C., I clamped on to the idea like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. This was my ticket out. I was so convinced a random wouldn’t want to live with me and all my chronic illnesses. So this proposition could work.

But life had its own plan–as it often does. To make a long story short, a friend randomly introduced me to her friend who was looking for a new roommate. On a whim, but still convinced I would move with Laura soon, I met her and saw the quaint apartment in the very nice and safe Capitol Hill neighborhood in D.C. I was upfront with her about all my medical things. She works in public health and didn’t seem to bat an eye about it–even when I told her sometimes I have to go on IV. We both agreed it seemed like a good fit.

A month later, I’m typing this blog from my (adorable) neighborhood coffeeshop in D.C. I’ve been at my new apartment for a week and it’s a million times better than I anticipated. I’m completely in love with the location. It’s surrounded by big, lusciously green parks. It’s walking distance to several fun neighborhoods. The people are incredibly nice. I’ve chatted strangers up at the grocery store, the pharmacy, and a shop. Who says people in D.C. are mean?

My new roommate is amazing. It wasn’t even awkward in the beginning. We’ve already had deep life conversations–a favorite activity of mine–about career paths for our generation and whether to have children. Last night we saw a politically conscious hip-hop band and then watched Netflix comedy specials.

For the first time in years, I’m excited to walk out the door. I feel like a tourist in my own city, discovering new places, exploring streets, and eager to talk with locals. I’ve lived almost 4 years in this area (STILL can’t believe it’s been that long already!), yet I barely know D.C. It seems fitting to finally do it.

“Are you ready?” my roommate asked as she grabbed my shoulder. She was referring to leaving the concert venue. But as I turned around to see her friendly eyes, the question took on a whole new meaning.

Yeah, I’m ready for this next adventure. No more fear. Let’s go.