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I don't know why I was born with a genetic illness. It took two chromosomes carrying a silent secret. It was not planned and could not be avoided without losing the me of me. This mysterious combination gave me my hazel eyes, auburn hair, freckles, an impatient, introspective nature, and cystic fibrosis. I don't need to know why. It doesn't need to be answered. It only needs to be lived. For most of my life, I wanted to write a book of my experiences, but some were too painful, some too private, and some too complaining. Besides, I never wanted to read about other people's struggles with illness. I had too many of my own. I preferred juicier topics like King Arthur, romances, nature, spirituality, and art. But the voice persisted. So I sought in my writings not a recounting of horrors, or an exposé of many small injustices, but rather a refuge, a place to go when the often and inevitable ambushes occur. Each writing is a bridge, a journey, a landmark from somewhere deep in my soul. I invite you to visit these places with me, whether you are a native to the land of illness or a tourist. Come walk with me.
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