Every now and then I get in a funk. It happens. A big bowl of ice cream, maybe a glass of wine (who’s kidding, ALWAYS wine), and mind-numbing TV (Real Housewives of Anything, amiright?) and I’m back to my non-funky self.
But a couple weeks ago a funk settled in that I just couldn’t shake. I tried all the normal fixes: mint chocolate chip ice cream, lazing around on the couch, a
couple few glasses of Cupcake Pinot Grigio. Heck, I even watched numerous episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
Still, the funk lingered.
I had plenty of moments where it seemed to have disappeared… only for it to show up a few hours later.
Here’s the thing: there is no vacation from CF.
Feeling drained? Skip your workout. Need a mental health day? Take a day off from work. Feel like grabbing lunch with a friend instead of cleaning? Do it. Want to forget making dinner and go out with your husband? I don’t blame you.
Want CF to leave you alone for a couple days? Sorry, kid. No can do.
That takes its toll. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
There were days these past two weeks where all I could do was come home and cry. As if trying to keep it together for eight hours at work was all I had in me. Thankfully, I have a super understanding husband who knows that letting me cry (and running to the store for ice cream) is exactly what I need.
But still, it was frustrating. Not being able to get myself out of that hole made me feel a little nuts. I just wanted to know WHY I was feeling that way. And I wanted to get back to feeling like myself. Not this mopey, lazy, sit-on-the-couch-and-do-nothing, sad sack version.
Maybe this is all a lesson in not always needing a reason. I have a life-threatening illness and sometimes that, THAT is enough to warrant a two-week funk.
As much as this funk has finally lifted, I still don’t feel quite okay. I think part of it is that I’m more involved in the CF community than I’ve ever been. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s a kind of support and understanding that is irreplaceable. But damn is it hard. To hear of other CFers struggling, being listed for transplant, not making it. This disease is not for the faint of heart, and sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for what the future holds.
Maybe it’s naive or weak or… I don’t know. But I can’t go there. I’m afraid that if I think too much about what could happen that I’ll never be able to escape the inevitable terror that would set in.
So instead I turn to ice cream and wine and tears. And when that doesn’t work I write. I talk to my husband. I go to yoga and acupuncture. And I hope. I hope that advancements will continue to be made. That fewer people will die waiting for lung transplants. That a cure will be found. And that all of us CFers will one day be able to take a permanent vacation from CF.