I caution that you might want to consider putting on a hazmat suit. I'm a bit toxic this morning. A rant is brewing and about to spew and spill. I need to lance this boil of anger.

First of all, people need to be reminded about IPF. It doesn't have a pretty ribbon. Nothing cutesy to catch the public's attention or research dollars. No one famous enough has died - someone who could cause a tsunami of compassion and concern and support.

A fast fact I'll share again: More people this year will be diagnosed and die from IPF than breast cancer or any other cancer. Don't make me repeat this, re-read the sentence.

IPF is an ugly evil disease. Every day my lungs harden a bit more, my breath becomes more shallow.


****


I think the canula up my nose has something to do with the public's malaise or indifference to pulmonary disease. Since my diagnosis, I've only had a couple of jackasses ask me if I smoked. It's never been a question of compassion. It was one of judgment. As though I deserved to die.

I chatted with my pulmonary specialist about this. I told her I always tell the doctors the truth, but I lie through my cliched teeth with rude people. The asshole who asks will get this response, "Nope. Never picked up a cigarette in my entire life. But just so you know, it's been determined that my IPF is the result of genetics. So fuck off."

Um, I don't include the last sentence.

Dr. Lancaster smiled and agreed with my feelings - that pulmonary patients are harshly judged. She noted that most heart disease is the result of smoking cigarettes, but that no one ever asks a person with heart disease if they smoked.

I'm 67. Many, many people my age probably have smoked at one time or another.


*****


I've lived on the mountain since 2006. I love it here. Love my home. Love the friends I have. My life is far simpler than it might appear.

I spent many lonely years here. People just didn't know what to do with a creature who danced to her own dreams. A woman who was quirky and laughed a lot, had a unique style. It was never that I was shunned. It was summed up best about seven years ago when someone said, "We just don't know what to do with you."

I wish I could remember the jackass that came up with that brilliant remark.

Folks, this is what you do with people with tender hearts, creative minds, above average intelligence, contagious laughter, compassion, kindness, a sense of fairness and generosity... You thank God they were born.

Over the years, like most creatures, I've adapted. I've learned to love my solitude, prefer it.

So, with the recent acceleration of my disease, all of a sudden people are interested in me. They want to stop by. Have a cup of tea. A glass of wine. A visit.

This is the dealio. My Pastor recently told me that this is a time in my life to be selfish. We were talking on the phone so she couldn't see me cringe. I don't do selfish well.

But she's right. I need to start being selfish at this juncture. I'm much more ill than I let on. I need to parcel my energy with care. I'm not going to spend my remaining time in the company of random people who all of a sudden want to be with me. I'm not going to spend my remaining time comforting you. I shake my head as I type. People - get a grip! Instead of coming to my home with your vapid hand-wringing concerns, be forward thinking. Reach out to someone who's lonely and can benefit from an ounce of your kindness. Don't come to this dying woman's home to be comforted.


*****


Revisionists are another pain in the patootie. You all know what I'm talking about. A person dies and all of a sudden they become Saints... hallowed and revered. Good grief. What bullshit. The ridiculous revising is akin to canned laughter. It resonates with phoniness. Gag.

When I die, of course I want nice things said about me, but there also should be the disclosure that I was a royal pain in the ass. Just ask the two men I married and left. (For a modicum of decorum here, I cleaned up that last sentence.)

I've made so many missteps in my life, I've probably broken the record for missteps. So don't revise me with a glossy facade. Despite my mountain of missteps (a relative once reminded me that I couldn't get anything right), I was a real person - very real. I loved. I thanked. I forgave. I wanted. I gave. I needed. And then I loved some more. Often too good for my own good. And that's the glossy truth.


*****


I think that just about does it for now.

I'll close with a couple of quotes. I just finished reading All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. It takes place during WWII. A young French girl who's blind says to a young German soldier, "...People said I was brave. But it is not bravery; I have no choice. I wake up and live my life, Don't you do the same?"

Doerr's book is a masterpiece of fine writing, but that passage especially jumped out at me, because that's what I do. I'm not especially brave. I have no choice. So, I too, wake up and live my life. And I suggest you all do, too.


****


The other quote is from a slip of paper I pulled from Libby Fritsche's gift to me - a beautiful jar packed with inspiration. This is what I pulled from the jar yesterday. I like it. I want people to know I hope this is a truth that will comfort them when that time comes.

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings from heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.

Eskimo Proverb


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