Nobody's Fool

I often joke that you can call me a word-that-rhymes-with-pitch, and I'll cackle and agree with you before leaving you in my broom's dust; but if you call me stupid, and really mean it, I will curl up in the fetal position and sob. I don't know how or why I have this particular hang-up about being viewed as unintelligent (putting aside for a moment the larger issue of why I give so much weight to others' opinions of me, period, in the first place), but I do, and to a degree that can border on paralyzing. 

Recently, in one of those, "and what's the worst that could happen? and then what?" conversational trails with a friend, I ended up on, "Because... I don't want to be made to look like a fool. I don't want people to be able to say, 'yeah, and how did you not see THAT coming?'". He challenged me, "And why does that matter?" And I truly didn't have an answer for him, at all - not even one of the logical twisty-turns I pull out when I'm cornered. But I did have a very visceral reaction even imagining the particular scenario taking place, having everyone I care about metaphorically pointing and laughing, as if I was the only one not in on the joke, and the joke was on me. 

Few things make me feel dumber than being tricked by my own body. I know, I know - CF is a complicated, unpredictable, tricky-by-nature sort of beast. But freak incidents aside, I've gotten pretty good at anticipating most of its big plays. So when I get sucker-punched by a sneak attack that I should have seen coming - or at least, *I* think I should have seen coming - I don't feel blue, I feel stupid. And therefore, embarrassed. And therefore, pissed. 

Unfortunately, one such sneak attack still gets me every. damned. time. It's when I've felt good enough, long enough, to take my eye off the ball and relax a little, instead of maniacally waiting for the other shoe to drop. I stop thinking about breathing, for a while. I go out and have fun. I allow myself to think that I might have turned a page, and this record streak of mild just might be my new normal. I even bounce back from a cold or two with minimal interference. 

So when I start getting a little short of breath, here and there, I can - and do - easily rationalize it as wonky weather, or missing a treatment yesterday, or maybe that bug that seems to be going around. And it gets better. Then, when I start losing a little weight, here and there, I'm actually kind of happy, because "hey! It obviously just means I'm that much more generally active without even realizing it!" I gain a pound or three back, here and there, and I think nothing of my flatter-than-usual stomach, and slightly-less-chimpmunk-like cheeks; who would be concerned about such windfalls? And when I start needing a pep-talk to get up in the morning, instead of waking up without an alarm; or increasingly larger hits of caffeine to stay awake and functioning... well - I've just been so busy; clearly, I'm just a little overextended. 

And so it creeps, in fits and starts, ever larger increments of well-being chipped away, but with enough of a reprieve between each that I fail to notice, or fail to acknowledge, the decay. And each day, then week by week, I slowly accept a new, old normal, without even realizing it - until one day I wake up gasping for breath, as if bricks have been stacked upon my chest or a vice tightened around it; I stumble into the bathroom to get ready for the day, and it's a challenge and a feat rather than pleasurable routine; My face no longer appears delicately porcelain, but deprived and sallow. I spend the day negotiating with myself to complete the smallest of tasks, humiliated that I'm having to psych myself into doing even that which should be background noise to the real accomplishments of my day, bribing myself into eating, nebbing, vesting, cleaning, showing up in my own life. 

Still, I somehow delude myself into believing it's just a phase; if I just step up my treatments, or do a little more here, or a little less there, everything will settle back into an acceptable normal. Until I'm startled awake in the early hours by a telltale gurgle deep in my throat - seemingly amplified by the eerie midnight silence - and the accompanying blend of fear, disgust, and deflation, and rage that overcome me and that I don't think I'll ever shake. Or until a simple night out with friends, after a day of delicately allocating spoons to ensure its success, leaves me breathless, exhausted, feverish, and teetering on inflamed and unreliable joints, unable to show up for a meager four-hour shift on a rainy Saturday night. 

So here I am, yet again. Tired, breathless, sore, and embarrassed; convinced that my family, friends, doctor and coworkers, those who know me best - or worse, who don't - are shocked at my surprise. "How did you not see THIS coming?" When will this otherwise intelligent girl connect some dots and start running interference before finding herself flat on her back, wind knocked clean out? 

Trust me, I'm working on it. I'm determined to be nobody's fool ... least of all, my own.