Who cares?

Some days I just don't care.

I don't care what I look like.

I don't care about my hair. Sometimes I don't even brush it - isn't that what pony tails are for?

And makeup? What's that?

Sometimes I like to lounge around in my pjs. Living the life. Sucking back coffee. Reading a book. Watching The Walking Dead, like a big bad zombie myself.

Some days I don't want to even leave the house cause lazing around is just so, so, so sweet.

Like today.

BUT, most days I care. I want to look sassified and stuff, just like you. I like dress myself up, "paint my face" and chuck on some jewelry. It's nice to have a purpose and a place to go.

Why am I writing this? I have no idea. My fingers are just typing and I'm just watching them go.

I'm feeling great. Blood work has been great. Energy is great. Brain is ready to get back in action. Soon!

I've signed up for the Credit Union Atlantic Lung Run, which is in a couple of weeks. I have Bambi legs, the muscles of a toddler...should be interesting. I know I can always walk these events, but I dream of running. My legs pumping, my heart beating strong, listening to some funky beat in my head.

In my imagination I can run like I did as a teenager. I could run. Fast.

We'll see how my training goes!

 And on those days, I will care. About exercise. About getting stronger. About my beautiful chunkers allowing me to do it.

But not one bit about my hair and makeup. Nor my style choices. Cool?

Lung Leavin' Day

I received an email from a stranger.   

This happens once in awhile. 

But not like this. 

Heather gave birth to a baby girl named Lily. Three and a half months later Heather was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma and given 15 months to live.

8 years later Heather is alive and well.  

Heather is a cancer survivor.

Go ahead. I'll wait.....



Did you do it? Did you take a moment to let that sink in? To think about those you love who've suffered from the "C word"? To remember those lost, those fighting now and those who've survived?

Good. And if you didn't, do it NOW.

Click here to get a quick understanding of their story.

Click here to check out their blog.

What's that? You want a hint of what you'll see on their blog?

Sure! Here it is:

 

Cameron asked me to share their story. I'm more than happy to.  
I think what they do is beyond awesome. 

I only wish I could hug you Heather...and congratulate you for kicking cancer in the junk!

Raising $$$$ to kick CF in the junk!

It's that time of yeaaaaaaar!!!

I've got plans baby. Plans to raise enough $$$ to kill CF. Throw it in a grave and bury it forever. Doubt there will be a funeral; funerals are for those you love. 

Ain't nobody love CF. 

So, maybe my plans are crazy. Maybe I alone can't raise that kind of green. BUT, I have friends (yup I do). And those friends have friends. All around the country people are raising money. 

For what, you ask?

Great Strides. It happens every May. I did it last year. Even ran for about 30 seconds. What!!!!????

I was super pumped and proud that I could participate last year. It was a test for my new chunkers. They passed. I even named the team Live Laugh Lungs. Cause that's the name of my blog. Yup, I'm creative like crazy. 

We had such a great team. It was huge! I was so touched that so many of my friends and family joined. We raised awesome funds and had a blast. I was honoured to be asked to speak at the start and cut the ribbon. I'm really good with scissors. 

Great Strides is a national fundraiser in the fight against Cystic Fibrosis. It is a 5 km walk (you can run if you're ambitious). The money goes toward research and treatment to kick CF in the junk.

Right to the face

We have raised $145 so far. That's not enough to get a scientist to open his/her eyeballs. So.....

LET'S DO THIS!!!

Click here!!!!! Great Strides website 

Click on "Sponsor a Participant"
Click on Team Search
Type Live Laugh Lungs
The screen will refresh and you can click on my team at the bottom of the screen

Once you're done sponsoring $100,000 - get a friend on board. Just make them feel really guilty if they don't. Threaten them with your singing voice or cooking. 

BUT, if you don't care about a tax receipt, and want something to be excited about, there is an alternate way to help me kick CF in the junk.

Thankfully, I have a creative fundraising genius in my family: my mama. She's come up with a few ways to raise some beautiful money for our team.

Ever hear of a lottery tree?

 
Tickets are 1 for $1 or 6 for $5.

Prize?  $200 worth of scratch tickets. 

I will even help you scratch!!! Even over coffee; I'll buy!!! Imagine the fabulous fun that would be!!! I love exclamation marks!!!

If you live far away I advise sponsoring via website (great advice, eh?). If you're local, you can contact me through the blog, or if you know me, you can call, email, text or send a singing telegram. Or contact my mother. If you need a phone number send me an email at livelaughlungs@gmail.com.

I really hate asking for money. Really, who likes to? BUT, CF sucks. It literally almost sucked the life out of me. In return, I'd like to suck the life out of it. And I'll walk my butt off to do it. 

Thanks in advance for considering sponsoring. It means the world to me...and life to many Canadians.

Blood Lab

I enter the hospital holding my breath (cause I can do that now) praying the place won't be packed. I came at lunch time. Surely people will be home stuffing their faces with soups, sandwiches and cheesies, right? 

I make my way down the long hallway. Halfway down I spot three heads sitting outside the waiting area. 

Not good news. 

They watch me. Likely entertainment for them; waiting to see my expression upon rounding the corner. 

I perform. The room looks like a beehive. Or a rave. Bodies everywhere. The buzzing of conversation between strangers. The screaming of numbers by the clerks. 

I take a step back and groan under my breath. I notice the number on the wall. 121. 

I press the button at the ticket station. #136. The approximate wait time shows 1 hour, 40 minutes. I seriously contemplate doing a 180 and stomping out. 

However, reality hits. I can't. This blood work is required. I need to be a good girl. A good patient. We need these results. 

I maneuver my way through the crowded room, trying not to knock knees or fall into laps. 

I try not to think of the germs. The illnesses that lurk in these stranger's bodies. 

Please don't anyone cough. Please don't  make me sick. 

A number is called. 

"#103!!!" 

What the???  

Is this a joke? 

So much time goes by. Numbers are not being called.  We all sit and stare at each other. 

In the corner I listen to a group talking. It's comforting, the things they discuss. Such randomness. 

For once I am silent. Just taking it all in. 

Finally, my number is called. It's so exciting. But only for a brief moment, until you realize that after this step you still have years to wait before you are called in to be poked. 

While being processed, I make an inquiry. Is there something in place for post-transplant patients? Something to protect us from a crowded waiting room? Another waiting area for immunosuppressed patients perhaps?

The answer - no. 

This isn't the right answer. I'm going to have to look into this. 

One of those posts where I'm extremely honest

I've struggled with guilt my entire life. Over what? Anything. Everything. 

My brain races around inside my skull as though it's competing in an ironman. 

I can't stop it. I try. I make myself think about other things. I try to shut it out and concentrate on something mundane. TV. My furry boys. The weather. My toenails. 

Anything. 

I'm someone who feels too much. Does that make sense? Likely not. I'm very emotional. I feel empathy easily. I want to help. To make things better. To change things. 

I hate disappointing anyone. I hate letting anyone down. 

However, what I've been told, and what I'm realizing is the truth, is that I'm the one I'm disappointing. 

Why?

Because of the pressure I place on myself. The demands. The goals. 

When I'm sick, I lay there in my own drool with nary the energy to lift my elbow. I slowly start to unravel. The typical stressors I place on myself fade away. Instead, they are replaced by exhaustion, pain, sometimes fear. 

I've been dreaming a lot lately. Same reoccurring theme. I'm either in school or working and a project, paper or presentation is due. Either I've only just started working on it, or I've completely forgotten about it. 

It's time. It's due. I'm up to bat and I've got nothing. My heart pounds. My breathing becomes labored. I'm clammy and sweaty. 

I look around anxiously. Look for an out. A solution. Something. 

And then I wake. 

What does this mean? Do I even believe in dream interpretations? 

One could correlate it to my feelings as of late. 

My guilt for not being at work. 

That is my biggest hurdle right now. And It was for the five years I spent on disability prior to transplant. 

It's tough to convince someone who's convinced they are "different", who can handle anything, that what they need is patience. Time. Rest. 

Mentally and physically I feel better. Of course I do. I'm out of lock up. I'm home. I'm not walking around in a daze. I'm not slumped over my bed, my body twisted from attempting to move. 

I can function. I can stay alert. My eyeballs are open and taking in my surroundings. I'm happier. I'm alive. 

My guilt encompasses exactly that. I can function. Therefore, I feel as though I should be more productive. I should throw myself back into work. Immediately. As soon as I walk out of lockup, I should walk straight into the office. Bury myself with work. Do something meaningful. 

And if I don't, if I take the time to ensure I'm really okay (as it's still an ongoing process), I feel the guilt barreling down, choking me. Threatening to take over my life. 

Why can't I just relax? Why can't I just do what I need to do to rest, continue with my medical tests and be as healthy as I can be? 

Do I need to carve it into my forehead? A tattoo? Stare into the mirror and repeat "you are lucky to be alive" every day? 

How does one drill it into one's head that one's health is number one? 

I always understand this when sick. Well, I am better at understanding this when I'm sick. 

Does someone own the secret to this? 

I've been given this second chance, this new life...my new chunkers are so important and need to be respected. 

Respected because they once belonged to someone else. Someone else who walked the earth. Breathed the way I'm breathing right now. 

Someone who lost their life and selflessly donated these beautiful chunkers to give someone else life. 

What's more powerful than that? 

Maybe I should create a "Peope on disability" club, like AA, where we support each other and perhaps go bowling. 

Thoughts?

Mr. Prednisone

I think my pal Mr. Prednisone is mad at me. 

I lay here. It's dark. 

I lay here. It's bed time. 

I lay here. The city sleeps. 

I lay here. Brad's gentle breathing. 

I lay here. The dogs are snoring. 

I lay here. 

I lay here. 

I lay here. 

Eyeballs staring; room lit up by the streetlight. 

Mind racing; too much to think about. 

Feeling better. 

But starving. Can't get enough to eat. 

Finish one thing and start thinking of what's next. 

What will fill me? 

What will make me satisfied?

When will the cravings stop?

Mr. Prednisone, you can be so cruel. 

I am always kind to you. I take you every day, on time. 

In return, you leave me wide awake and day dreaming of food. 

All kinds of food. 

Food. 

Sleep. You avoid me. You dodge me. You playing with me?

I just want to close my eyes and drift. Dream of food. 

More snoring in the room. 

More alertness inside. Can't understand. Just want sleep. Sleep is all I want. 

And food. 

Monday Monday

I watched the Oscars last night. 

Beautiful people and dresses all over the place. 

Problem. 

I was supposed to co-host with Ellen, however there was a conflict in my schedule. 

I had to wash my hair. Ooops. Sorry Ellen. Next time. 

Over the weekend I finally got out and socialized a bit. It felt great getting out and not spending the weekend in lockup, jealous of everyone and their social activities. We watched a bunch of university basketball games. Ate some food. 

And then...

Saturday night I woke with horrible stomach pains. As in fetal position, tears streaming, praying for a sledge hammer to knock myself out kind of pain. 

I felt it all day Sunday. I stayed home. No way I could sit and watch basketball with my stomach threatening to detonate at any moment. 

The pain came out to play this morning while a needle was sticking in my arm. Yup, more bloodwork. 

I actually managed to roll my limp body out of bed at 7am. It's been awhile since I could function at that hour. 

I was poked. Got my jacket on to leave and heard, "Oh Jessica, you're going to hate me!"

Turns out the tech forgot to get one vial. Another poke and I was out the door. 

I've been told I have small sneaky veins. Good news is that I have one in my right arm that jumps out and waves at the techs and can handle lots of damage. 

I'm struggling a bit with my energy today. However, I'll attribute that to the stomach pain. 

There's worse things than cuddling my furry boys on the couch, heating pad going full blast, sipping on hazelnut coffee. 

Spoiler alert: I am starting to fundraise for the Cystic Fibrosis Great Strides walk in May. 

I'll post the link here soon. 

If you're local, there's a seperate, and very cool, fundraiser that I'll talk about as well. 

Happy Monday!