April 26. I've said that date aloud many times throughout my life. As a perpetual patient, I divulge my birthday at doctor visits, as I coordinate refills, and as I sit impatiently on the phone while sorting out the latest health insurance debacle. When hospitalized, I say it countless times each day, even wearing a bracelet that says it. April 26. July 20. That’s a date I’ve said aloud many times throughout the last two years. As a fresh widow (#freshwidow – Can I make that
When I took my first dose of Trikafta in March 2019, I felt, as the pills slid down my throat, that my life might be changing. And change it did. In just a few days, breathing was easier, pain was minimal, and energy was plentiful. After a euphoric six weeks on the medication as part of a clinical trial, the doctor called one Thursday night. “Do not take another dose of the medication. Your liver levels are almost 10 times what they should be,” she said, dread in her voice. I
When I sit down to write something grief related, I occasionally feel a twinge of worry. I’m concerned that by continuing to document my experience people will assume that I’m stuck in a place of sadness. They’ll think that my grief is all-consuming, even debilitating. And though grief is quick to answer “Here!” during roll call, it’s not an unwelcomed attendee. Instead, grief has become my sidekick. I’m ultimately running the show, but grief is by my side, emboldening me to
My name is Drew Dotson, and my life has been anything but perfect, yet it's still perfectly beautiful. After growing up with a genetic disease, cystic fibrosis, I was blessed to meet an amazing man who loved me without bounds. Then he died.