I couldn't sleep last night.
As I tossed and turned, I thought back to the conversation Adam and I had earlier that evening. The silly conversation that began with Adam stressing about turning 25 next week. The innocent little conversation that somehow managed to stir up all these unwanted and difficult emotions I usually keep hidden.
Me: Honey, you need to chill. 25 is NOT OLD!
Adam: Maybe it's not technically old, but 25 is halfway to 50, and in my family that means halfway to DEAD.
Me: Well, you should consider yourself lucky. I mean, someone with CF...
Adam: Don't even say it. Please.
We hate talking about it, so we usually don't. In fact, we generally avoid the topic like we would avoid the plague. THE FUTURE is a taboo subject in our house. We talk about what our plans are next month, or next summer, or even what we'd like to be doing in a few years from now. But we rarely dare to venture much farther than that. It's difficult to think about what the future may hold, even the pleasant things, when there's this perpetual dark cloud looming overhead; when there's no guarantee you'll even be there to experience those moments. And what's even worse: imagining how the ones you'll eventually be leaving behind are going to cope.
Most of the time, I'm very optimistic. Most of the time, I feel strong. Most of the time, I feel completely capable of handling this disease and all that implies, even the hardest parts. But every once in a while, I break down. So I have to remind myself: I'm allowed to cry. I'm allowed to have moments of insecurity. I'm allowed to curse this disease that has already taken so much from me and will, someday, take all of me. I'm allowed to have moments of weakness where I throw my hands up and shout IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!
I'm allowed to be scared.
Soon, I'll gather my emotions back up, pull myself together and press forward once again with a positive attitude. I just need to be allowed this moment.
And then, I promise, I'll try to be strong again.