I don't know why I'm alive. I should be dead. I've survived the impossible and come out of hard times with less than a scratch. I'm one of the healthiest people with Cystic Fibrosis in the world, even though I was hit pretty hard with trouble in my early childhood. I've defied the laws of everything, since God saved me when medicine couldn't, even if I doubted His obvious miracle the next day. I guess God knows when it'll sink it, which it usually does weeks or months or years later.

When I was first sick with Pseudomonas, almost a year ago, I was rushed to the ER. It was the night of September 11th, 2017, and I was rapidly deteriorating. My mom had a little finger pulse-ox monitor from Amazon which she tested to make sure it was accurate. My oxygen-blood count is usually in the low to mid 90s, but on this night it was hovering just above 85 and was getting lower. My mom called the doctors to ask them if this was normal, and they immediately freaked out and told her to bring me to the ER right then and there! If it dropped below 80, I could die, and it was lowering every hour. 

To say I was terrified is an understatement. I was basically on an airplane that just lost its wings. Talk about the worst anxiety attack ever, while trying to breathe though a bloody sinus infection and damaged lungs. I couldn't breathe, and with a hospital stay absolutely imminent, I didn't know what to do. I just curled up in a corner and didn't leave until my mom dragged me out by my sleeve. I chewed my nails until they bled, and I was met with hospital staff ten minutes after mom shoved me in the car. Mom was probably just as scared as I, but she didn't show it. She remained stern with me and stood next to me as the doctors and nurses took my vitals. 

I remember the nurse looking at the pulse-ox monitor with confusion. She shook her head, unhooked me, and brought in another monitor. She hooked me up again, and she had the same look on her face. My mom got curious as the nurse pressed a few buttons, shook her head again, and then began to explain to my mom what was going on. Both monitors read my pulse-ox level as being between 94 and 96, and was increasing by the minute. Never in my life have I had such high pulse-ox numbers, and the nurses didn't know what the deal was! My heart rate was nearing 180 beats per minute, and another nurse stood by just in case I passed out. I felt like I was gonna die, and every time I stood up I stumbled, but I refused to go into a wheelchair. Every few breaths I coughed, and my nostrils were flared even though I couldn't get any air through them. 

My mom was shocked by my numbers, and asked the nurse if it was glitching. The nurse switched me between the two monitors, and concluded that it was in fact accurate, and by then I had a pulse-ox of 97. The nurse decided to bring me to a private room in the back with another monitor, and my mom helped me into a hospital gown. I was hooked up to the third monitor in the room, and my pulse-ox started at 96 and increased to 98. By then, my doctors had ordered sinus and lung X-rays, so I was taken out for those. Meanwhile, my mom called my grandpa to ask him to collect my little brother (who was forced to come along and would be staying with my grandparents during my hospital stay), and told him what was going on. 

After my X-rays, a nurse put me back on the monitor, and everyone's eyes widened (except mine. I was too out of it by then to really comprehend what was going on). My grandpa arrived, and he immediately started thanking God. My mom joined him in his prayer, as my pulse-ox stayed at a solid 100 for the rest of the night. Not only is this impossible for someone in Colorado, but it was really impossible for me! I've never had a pulse-ox so high before, and probably never will again. In fact, every staff member managing the ER that night paid me a visit just to see my numbers. Some of them praised the Lord just like my mom and grandpa were, and others just stared in awe for a few moments and left. My mom and grandpa had tears in their eyes, and mom sent a picture of my pulse-ox monitor to almost everyone she knew. 

When my X-rays were reviewed, I was a little stuffy in my lungs and my sinuses were definitely full, but I wasn't in much pain and my pulse-ox was impossibly high, so I was free to go and stay at home until I was well again. One doctor practically chastised me for wasting 2 hours at the ER. My mom told him to yell at my doctors since they were the ones who made us come, and I just said I wanted to go home. In fact, for the whole night that's all I said except for when I answered yes and no questions. My heart rate had slowed to around 80 by then, and my pulse-ox stayed at 100 until they unplugged me and gave me the green light to leave. 

My mom got me my favorite food from the store, which included two things of sushi and a gallon of diet lemonade. As soon as I got home and finished my late-night dinner, I crashed in my bed for another 14 hours. It didn't really hit me until months later, when I beat Pseudomonas in April of this year, and looked back at my battle. Even now, as I type this, I've got chills and am choked up. 

I've realized why that happened. Months before, after spending a long school year at a private Christian school, I was having serious doubts about my faith in God. I knew my doubts were pretty illogical, but I couldn't shake them. As I spent my days in North Dakota, those doubts were allowed to grow. So, one night, as I listened to coyotes howling, frogs chirping, and stared up at the Milky Way, I asked God for empirical evidence of His existence. And well, a few months later, I got it. 

As stubborn and skeptical I am, I can't begin to explain away that miracle, or many other miracles I've experienced. I spent a good few hours researching pulse-ox monitors and stats, and if the thing was glitching it would be making noises and jumping wildly between numbers. It's impossible to hyperventilate myself into those numbers. I guess people have tried it before and only deprived themselves of oxygen, which is why they passed out. Sure, you can become euphoric and energetic sometimes, but you quickly black out after that thanks to a lack of oxygen. I don't recall feeling stronger or better, even when my pulse-ox was higher than literally everyone else's above 4,000 feet. I was just frozen in terror, and kept thinking back to all the horrible things that happened to me during my past hospital stays. I've only been hospitalized twice since my first year of life, but both of those times were terrible and traumatic. 

I don't know why God has kept me alive and healthy for so long. I don't know why He keeps breaking the laws of science to help me out. I guess God knows my heart, and has something in my future I need to be around for. Yeah, I screw up a lot, but I keep God in my heart. I guess that's what counts. 

I can't thank God enough for what He's done for me. I have physical scars that remind me of my past every day, but I also have mental scars that show me that God is very real, while keeping me up some nights with terrible fear. I wouldn't have survived my first year of life if God didn't exist, let alone the rest of my life up until now. At my age, most CFers with genes less harsh than mine have wills written and funerals planned. Meanwhile, I was born a blue baby with almost no pulse, and the most severe type of CF in existence, yet I am extremely healthy and baffle the doctors every time I see them. My heart doctors still can't explain how I could have an open heart surgery and a valve replacement, and then grow back a new and functioning valve years later, saving me from needing more surgeries. My lung doctors still don't know why I'm so healthy, but just encourage me to keep doing what I'm doing since it's obviously working. I guess prayer is obviously working, along with my crazy wild game diet and even more insane alternative treatments. 

I still suffer like a lot of CFers do. I still get sick, and when I get sick that can drag me down really fast. I still have to take 50 pills a day and complete an hour of physical treatments everyday, not counting the exercise I do. I still have to see my pulmonary doctors (which there's like 10 of them, at least) every few months and get summoned to random blood draws. Even I still see my cardiac doctors every few years so they can study my heart for whatever reason. But, I'm glad that my hospital stays are extremely rare, and even happier to just be alive. I don't take a single day for granted, even if it was a bad day. 

I guess CF and my past have their benefits. I'm never allowed to compare scars and near death experiences with family or friends, since I'll always win. No one has a 12 inch heart surgery scar. No one's suffered like I have. I automatically have the title of being the biggest badass in the family by far, even though I didn't really get to choose to have that stuck next to my name.

I have to fight. There isn't a choice. Either I get up everyday with a "try me" attitude, and fight CF even and especially, when it hurts, or I curl up and die. 

My parents never let me have excuses, and they never held me back. They encouraged me to go into extreme sports and compete with the fit and healthy kids. They made me go to a regular school until it tried to kill me last semester, and exposed me enough so I can fight off common illnesses without antibiotics. They made sure I ate right, had the right medication, and got my stuff done. Even today, my mom still buys me "disgusting" foods like calf liver, raw sushi, and steaks I cook rare, even though she always makes a face when she sees me eating it. And my dad goes on wild and stupid adventures with me every weekend he sees me, and isn't afraid to try the foods my mom gags at. In fact, dad never lets me win anything. I have to beat him at his level, and as I age, I get closer to that. 

They do this because...

Of course, with my case of CF, it comes with loneliness. Even when I'm surrounded by friends and family, I still feel lonely sometimes. It creeps up on me when I'm least expecting, just to remind me that there's almost no one else like me, and almost no one understands certain things that I do. Not many people think about death more than once a day, or have any miracle stories, let alone enough to fill an entire book series, especially as a teenager. Not many people really get why I don't like showing off my scars. My mom thinks it's the coolest thing ever and I ought to be proud, but I don't want strangers to ask me about the heart surgery I had when I was three days old. It just further points me out, and I don't like that. Loneliness loves to tease me about not being a normal teen girl, but I've learned a few ways to taunt it back. 

I've decided that normal is boring. I'd rather be a redneck outlaw like I basically am, than participate in whatever dumb trends most teen girls are into. I've been picked on for my jeans, T shirts, and lack of makeup and a boyfriend, but I really couldn't care less. At least I'm interesting, and I know how to have fun outside of wild parties with illegal activities. Unfortunately, not many of my peers got to really know me, since they were too busy judging me on my appearance, or the fact I take pills and can eat everything I want without gaining weight. But, at the same time, were they really good people to befriend if appearance and pills were the first things they cared about? Probably not. 

Truth is, CF probably helped me dodge a lot of bullets I don't even realize I've dodged. My parents have both told me horror stories about their rebellious teenage years, and both have emphasized on how glad they are I'm not rebellious like they were. I don't follow trends or give into peer pressure. I don't even give into pressure my doctors have put on me to go on certain medications that would've done more damage than good. In many ways, that's good, but it's also really good at picking me out and bringing in loneliness. 

 (rough transition, kinda) I try to surround myself with people who understand me in some ways, and share my love for hunting and motocross, but that doesn't help when I log into social media, search for fellow CFers, and see people my age who have literally months to live. I can't get their faces out of my mind. Those who aren't dying are crazy CFers who are awesome, but I don't share their obsession with bodybuilding. I'm definitely into staying fit and healthy, but I'm in no hurry to gain an eight pack. Plus, I find it kinda hard to see myself in dudes who are thrice my size and call themselves superhero names (such as "Thor" who lives in Australia), and live off of beef and avocados (such as another bodybuilder guy who lives in SoCal). 

I'm on my own in many ways. I hunt to survive, I don't know of a single teenage girl with CF who isn't on the lung transplant list, and I've got a mile-long list of mostly non-conventional CF medication. But hey, I'm still very much alive and living life the best way I know how. I give God a lot of credit, since without Him I would've died a long time ago, and I trust my instincts and ability to research stuff when a new medication and/or illness is presented. 

Of course, I'm fallible. I've screwed up before, and will screw up again, but I'm healthy enough to have some room for mistakes. Luckily, my mom's right there with me on research, so if my way doesn't work, we'll try her way, and vice versa. But, when I'm healthy, I take advantage of that and fill my days up with work and good times. When I'm sick, I basically hibernate like a bear until I heal. It's a hard life, but I wouldn't live life without CF being part of it. If I could cure my disease tomorrow, I would, but I couldn't relive my life without it. I'd be a completely different person living a completely different life, and it kinda scares me to think about how much different I'd be if I didn't have CF. I'd be more or less normal, and that's a strange thought. I honestly can't see myself doing things most girls my age are doing, but I'd probably be into that stuff if I wasn't born into suffering. 

There's good things in everything, and that's the greatest lesson I've been taught. Yeah, CF sucks, and Pulmonary Atresia isn't much better for pretty much everyone else with it, but there's lessons to be taught that almost can't be taught any other way. They're blessings disguised as massive burdens, and I just have to make the best of it. 

(come back to everyday is a choice. There's blessings, there's burdens.)