So you were born with a genetic curse that basically makes your mucus thick enough to be considered construction-grade adhesive. Cystic fibrosis doesn’t just mess with your lungs—it shows up like, “Surprise! I’m also gonna ruin your pancreas, your digestion, and possibly your dating life.”

Your lungs? Yeah, they were once air balloons. Then they turned into cement-filled Ziploc bags. Breathing feels like trying to sip soup through a coffee stirrer while your lungs host a rave for bacteria.

Then, BOOM: CF-Related Diabetes rolls in like a side quest you didn’t sign up for. Because your pancreas is already overwhelmed by the mucus apocalypse, it’s like, “You want insulin regulation too?? Please.”

Now you’re juggling:

• Enzymes to digest your food
   
• Insulin because your blood sugar’s doing parkour
   
• Breathing treatments that last longer than most Netflix episodes
   
• And enough pills daily to qualify as a human maraca
   

Eventually your lungs were like:

“We’re done. We’re leaving. Find replacements or enjoy your life as a fancy balloon with arms.”

So you get a lung transplant, which is like switching out the engine of a car mid-race while the car is also on fire and allergic to the new engine. You’re put on the waiting list (also known as “purgatory with paperwork”) and finally get new lungs from someone who, bless their soul, donated theirs.

SURGERY TIME. You go under, they open your chest like a book no one wants to read, swap out your ancient lungs, and plug in your new ones. Hopefully right side up.

Post-transplant life means:

• Taking immunosuppressants daily so your body doesn’t go, “Imposter lungs? REJECTED.”
   
• Catching a cold now feels like gambling with your soul.
   
• You’ve got to wear masks in public long after everyone else gave up and started licking doorknobs again.
   
• Your immune system is basically a chill stoner now, totally unbothered by infections and unfortunately, also everything else.
   

Meanwhile, your CFRD is still there like, “Oh hey, I didn’t go anywhere.” So now you’re managing blood sugars and checking in with your transplant team every time you sneeze funny.

BUT—despite all the chaos, meds, appointments, and the fact that your body is basically running on duct tape and pure defiance—you keep going. You breathe. You live. You become an expert in medicine, nutrition, scheduling, and low-level existential dread.

You are a medically enhanced, pharmacy-sponsored, mucus-fighting cyborg with a master’s degree in survival.