Winter was in full swing, and the air was sharp and crisp, with a very low wind chill. Walking across the parking lot dressed in full winter gear like I was preparing to climb Mount Everest, I felt pretty good. The sun was shining, and leaving work to go home to the family always put that pep in my step.

Soon the brutal wind, biting into me, made each step feel like I was trekking through a mud pit. My little scarf just couldn't keep up with the cold. I started to feel like I was suffocating. My body started rebelling against my exertion. Legs were burning, hands were shaking, and worst of all, my 73% lung function started feeling like 12%. Hot flashes and memory flashbacks started kicking in.

I realized I was having a full-blown panic attack.

You see, I had a double-lung transplant more than 14 years ago, and in that moment my body was flooded with all the terror that filled my thoughts right before my transplant. Smack dab in the middle of that parking lot, I started throwing stuff down on the ground and collapsed with my inhaler glued to my mouth. That minute of just sitting and praying that no one saw me was excruciating. I didn't really acknowledge the trauma or the panic attack I was going through at that moment. I just chalked it up to lack of exercise and of a good winter scarf.

It wasn’t until I was helping with the CF Foundation’s Lung Transplant Advisory Board that I started connecting the dots from other cystic fibrosis peers. During those meetings, the group discussed medical trauma, and I realized that what I was going through was something many of my peers were also experiencing.

The memories before my transplant are still very fresh in many ways. I have always tried to stay strong for my family and friends who never really understood what I was going through. They didn’t understand the mental toll of functioning with less than 100% lung capacity… or even less than 50%.

Back then, going on oxygen felt like the world was falling apart until I actually started using it, and then it felt amazing. I could finally feel the air flow, and my body grew accustomed to it. But as my lungs continued to fail, I started to worry more and more about oxygen. I was still pretty active, so I took it everywhere with me: work, shopping, movies, even floating down a river. I wanted to keep living life, but I knew I needed oxygen to do so.

I remember the first time I had a panic attack with oxygen. I was getting ready to leave the house for a doctor’s appointment. I stepped outside, oxygen tank in tow, and I couldn’t even make it down the front steps. That simple exertion had me sitting there, gripping my inhaler and oxygen, trying not to cry. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t know what would happen next. What if I ran out of oxygen? What if I couldn’t walk anymore? A full-blown panic set in.

That was the beginning of the end for my lungs. I couldn’t continue living the life I had built for myself. This was also the beginning of my spiral into depression, which only triggered more panic attacks.

At the time, I didn’t think any of this was trauma. I never thought trauma was something that would happen to me — or more accurately, I didn’t think what I had gone through was considered trauma at all.

However, now looking back at all the little things, I see how trauma is like a bridge built on sand. It only takes one small flashback to sink. Before you know it, the bridge you thought was as strong as the Golden Gate Bridge becomes like a child’s sandcastle in a hurricane.

I started to realize how even something as simple as bloodwork triggers painful memories — memories of nurses struggling to find my veins, digging in my arm like they were searching for gold. I have a port and still need antibiotics at times. Not nearly as often as I used to, thankfully. But even the smell of heparin can bring back so many difficult hospital stays.

I have learned that even when it feels like those experiences are far behind me (thank God for that), they can still trigger trauma and cause panic attacks to resurface. Even with 70% lung function today, one memory surfaces, and suddenly I am back in my pre-transplant days when my body was shutting down and the lack of air consumed my every thought.

That cold wind can still literally take my breath away, and sometimes it does. But now, I try to recognize my triggers before they happen. For example, I park closer to the door or in a different parking lot during really cold winter days. I have also sought counseling to talk through these traumatic experiences.  That has helped tremendously because it can be so hard hashing it out with family and friends who just can't relate and then worry about me. The most significant help has been the support from other transplant recipients and people with CF.

Because no matter how small it may seem, collapsing in a parking lot from a cold wind gust, clinging to an inhaler like a lifeline, is not something small. It’s a sign of something deeper that deserves to be acknowledged, understood, and cared for.

If you see yourself in this story, I encourage you to reach out and connect with others. Whether it’s through the CF community, CF Peer Connect, or a trusted member of your care team, sharing your experiences can be a powerful step toward healing. We were never meant to carry this alone, and there is comfort in being understood by those who have walked a similar path.

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