I have more empathy
I was born and raised with white privilege. But I quickly learned that I have second-class white privilege. The discrimination I have faced and the attitudes and assumptions people display have shaped me and given me a different perspective on life.
Being on oxygen, people avoided me, judging me solely on my appearance, and their belief that I was contagious. I was slow, cumbersome as I moved, and people would rush past in annoyance.
None of these feelings are nice — as a result, I try to be more compassionate in my dealings with other people.

I don’t panic in a crisis
I’ve been through more than my share of medical emergencies. I know what to do and the importance of staying level-headed in a crisis. I can stay calm in the face of any calamity — from helping a co-worker who had sliced off her palm and needed an ambulance to driving my haemorrhaging dog to the closest emergency vet.

I know how to listen to my body
I’ve learned to be my best advocate. And part of that means being intuitively aware when something is not right. For my medical team to take my concerns seriously, I need to give them accurate descriptions. I need to pay attention to my warning signs.
Part of that is knowing when to rest. And learning to accept that sometimes rest is more important than anything else.

I appreciate the little things more
I’ve always known that my time would be short — so I’ve learned to make the most of it. To slow down and savour the little things.

 My insides were not ready to rock, and had no intention of playing ball.
 
The thing about CF is that while it’s known as a lung disease, it’s actually a multi-organ disease. In particular, it likes to target the digestive system.
CF had performed a hit-and-run strike.
 
By Monday morning, I was delirious and on my way to Royal Prince Alfred by ambulance.
My bowel had perforated, and I was septic.
“If you could fix me by Friday, that would be really swell,” I told my doctor, “Cause I’ve got a concert to go to.” He laughed and said he’d do his best.
 
But CF hadn’t been messing about.
Even with the antibiotics, I started going downhill fast.  
The damage was too extensive for my internal body magic to do its thing and repair myself without surgical intervention.
 
I was headed to theatre.
 
After they prepped me, I gave myself a stern talking-to — as I like to do when they are about to slice and dice me. One thing was unconditional. I knew that if I died on that table, Jarryn would never recover from the trauma of his Mum coming to visit and dying on his watch. It was not an option. I would crawl home if I had to.
 
A week after surgery, I was released back into Jarryn’s care.