Space travel is going to be interesting. I lock the pressurized air tubes into my vest -- I'm going to be taking off soon. I use my finger to press a few more buttons on my archaic display and prepare for liftoff. It's going to be a bumpy ride. I hear the engines firing up, and my small space is immediately overwhelmed with machine noise. If there were any existing background sounds, they are now completely engulfed by machine whirring. I flip one more switch, and the room fills with vapor. I'm taking off now. My body rattles against my chair, and I can't suppress my cough as the vapor fills my lungs. This is the moment that humanity has been waiting for, and I can't believe it's actually happening now. I'm in the driver's seat.
It's the season finale of "the-TV-show-everyone-is-watching-but-I'm-not-legally-allowed-to-name-in-fear-of-copyright-infringements." Sorry, folks, if I clickbaited you -- I'm actually on my couch. I'm doing my vest breathing therapy.
In high school, I would savor the moments when my parents would have guests over to the house while I was "lifting off." The unsuspecting church-going friends would pass my room that was filled with nebulized saline steam and question how lax my parents were with recreational drug use. After a few more attempts to inconspicuously glance into my room to get a grasp on what I was doing, they would always see my shaking vest; this would only elicit more confusion. They would try not to stare. If they looked especially concerned, sometimes I would roll my eyes back in my head and shake my limbs and body as if I were having a seizure. At that point, I would chuckle to myself as I'd observe guests try to politely ask my parents what was going on. Clearly, I've always thought that humor is the best medicine for my cystic fibrosis.
My CF isn't a genetic disease, it is a genetic mutation that makes me a part of an elite community of superhumans. In 2037, when sputum production becomes an Olympic sport, we will leave the rest of humanity in the dust.
I'm personally prepared for the moment when females find the most attractive physical trait to be thick, sticky nasal congestion. I exercise every day, so I can be prepared to flee from the hordes of beautiful women who will be trying to date me at that point. Two hundred years from now, we will prove that Darwin's theory of natural selection is true -- CFers will be the only people left on the planet.
I've found that my CF is unique to me; I have a very rare mutation combination that oftentimes makes me an outlier in the CF community. Because of this, I often have unique "personal side effects" to different standardized treatments. On one new medication, I find that I drool in amounts that are typically reserved for pitbulls. Whether this uptick in drooling is due to Trikafta®, or my sudden insatiable obsession with peanut butter chocolate, is yet to be determined. Either way, Trikafta's uniquely personal, miraculous treatment mechanism provides the perfect scapegoat for all my publicly unacceptable CF "features" -- especially those resulting in harmonious sounds emanating from my rear end. There is a reason everyone wears a mask in the CF clinic.
SIDE NOTE: My CF nurse seems to be overly concerned about my personal virtue; I have never had a sip of alcohol nor have I used any recreational drugs -- just the thought of holding hands with a girl gives me a panic attack. Despite this, my doctors always ask to see my fingers. They tell me that they're checking for "clubbing." I guess they don't believe the mountains of paperwork I filled out at the beginning. I came in for a lung consultation, not a moral interview. #CFprobs
As you can tell, humor is the way I deal with my CF. If you're looking to add another treatment regimen -- I highly recommend laughter: This therapy can be done on Earth or in outer space. Anyways, if you are reading this you probably already have a space suit, too -- but don't plan on beating me to the moon.
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