At least, that’s what I gathered from the last lecture day of my summer course on Human Development, in which we spent three hours learning about and discussing dying and death in grave detail (pun intended). Turns out, after someone goes through the grieving process upon finding out that they’re nearing the end, they tend to focus on “getting it right with God”, along with their legacy, and what they may leave behind for their friends and family. 

I had the idea of writing a memoir for a few years before I joined my writer’s group, and I had many, many things typed up and ready to be read in my Google Docs. I had all of my passwords and usernames written down in a physical journal I kept in my nightstand, as well as those same usernames and passwords typed out in my phone’s notes. I also explicitly wrote in my journal of passwords to “Read my Google Docs”. 

Even when I joined the writer’s group, I kept that journal of passwords and usernames updated, and continued hoarding every piece of paper that I sketched on, storing them all in my nightstand unbeknown to anyone but myself. According to my Human Development professor, those were signs that I’d reached the final stage of accepting my death; of accepting the fact that, unless a literal miracle happened, Pseudomonas was gonna kill me like it killed the author of “Salt in my Soul”, and that was that. 

That said, I didn’t accept my death lying down. I fought like hell to live. My whole life, from my diet, to exercise, to my pills, was regimented to the extreme. I attended my frequent doctors’ appointments religiously, and wrote constantly to alleviate some of my constant anxiety and anger. 

Even so, I knew that unless a literal miracle happened, my days were very much numbered, as my body continued to deteriorate despite my best efforts. But instead of “getting it right with God”, I more-or-less did the opposite. Assuming God existed (which, for most of high school, I didn’t think He did), I saw Him as the epitome of evil. I mean… what kind of God would allow kids to suffer and die from things like Cystic Fibrosis?

Then, out of nowhere, thanks to a miraculous medication, I was suddenly ripped out of that final stage of human development and dropped at the very beginning of the “emerging adult” stage of human development. Physically, I was aging backwards; Trikafta healed my body in ways I never thought were possible. Mentally, however, I’ve felt 90 years old ever since. 

Of course, I’m tremendously grateful for the fact that I’m no longer dying of a terminal illness anymore. Since getting my health back, I’ve changed my mind on God (for the most part, anyway). I literally thank Him every morning and evening for my family, friends, and health, all of which have enabled me to go to college and succeed at it. I work very hard to appreciate the things that I do have, and not get envious of others who have things that I don’t. I work equally hard to accept and appreciate my life for how it is, rather than how it could’ve been.