She met her husband in November 2008, during a seemingly mundane evening for him. He was out with his friends, celebrating what would be remembered as the start of a two-week stay at the hospital, a routine procedure for a “two-week tune-up.” This was going to be a part of a long process for him because, unfortunately, he had cystic fibrosis, a fact she wouldn’t learn for quite a while. She jumped right in, as she had for all her other relationships, and it would take her over two weeks for him to share with her his secret: he had a genetic disease.
She researched beforehand, quietly, what life with this condition might be like for them. She never once thought of walking away. She readily accepted it as what their reality was to be. It was a question asked of her by other people—whether he’d told her, whether she had a real reason to want to be with him, whether they ought to be concerned as their friends were.
She never asked herself those questions. She recognized in him something significant to her, and she wanted to be part of that life. She participates in 5K races for awareness of lung diseases, keeps track of the meds that he takes regularly, and teaches herself what they might be able to do for him in support of him.
Early 2011 saw his condition deteriorate sufficiently to be considered for a double lung transplant. July saw him put on the list for the transplant. Four months and four days went by before the call came. The surgery was successful, and his recovery was nothing short of miraculous. His breathing was back to normal, and the world was full of possibilities once again. They got engaged the following July, and they went on to travel, laugh, and enjoy the simple pleasures in life, such as seeing him bring in the groceries or take out the trash.
Their wedding took place in June of 2014, but he began to have difficulty breathing again just days before. On the night of their wedding, he became exhausted. By the next morning, it became apparent that something was amiss. Their beach wedding reception, which turned into a Chicago getaway because they could not be anywhere other than near medical facilities, became a discussion of a second transplant by the fall.
December 26, 2014. Before dawn, she was awakened by her father’s shouting her name. His father had fallen ill, and he could no longer manage the stairs, so he was sleeping on the couch. He could hardly breathe, shaking, cold, and afraid. She looked at him in the mirror in the bathroom, as she always did in situations like these, and asked him her question: “Do you think you are going to get out of it?” This time, his response was “No.”
They rushed to the hospital. Morphine was given, and the ICU doors were closed behind them. She slept on a cot beside his bed. Days passed into weeks—twenty of them. She stayed by his side, working from home. A fungal infection and pneumonia were diagnosed. She was devastated, yet she held on to hope. There was a moment when the truth was reflected in the nurse’s face before the words were spoken. CO2 levels told the truth. She understood. Two days later, on January 21, he was surrounded by relatives. He was gone.
Her younger brother became her lifeline. He came in, stayed with her, reminded her to eat and shower, and supported her when she had no strength to stand by herself. Sorrow emptied her. Therapy helped. Gradually, she became aware of how to breathe again.
At the end of 2016, disaster struck again. Her brother’s plane never made it to Anchorage. The search yielded only the truth: no one was wanted. Her heart was broken again. It happened on the eve of her son’s memorial service: she received the news of her pregnancy. There on the sonogram image was her due date: July 27th. It was her husband’s birthday. She knew it was no coincidence. Her daughter was her reason to live fully, to live openly, to live enough to love her, enough to keep living.
