I have never really thought of myself as “disabled”. I never use to that is. Then again, I have never lived to be 43 before. Or 42. Or 41. And with each passing year I am able to look back on an increasingly longer journey and see the innumerable ways in which having a chronic illness has impacted my life, affected my relationships, hurt me financially (up to this point at least), challenged me spiritually, angered me at times, hurt my self-image, pressed me forward in life, challenged me to be better than I would have otherwise been, held me down and kept me from being all that I could have been and more. So you see, reality really does run the full spectrum when I sit back and think about the ways in which having Cystic Fibrosis has shaped my life.

It am not an invalid, mind you. There are people with CF who are much sicker than I am. In fact, I would argue that I am not sick. But that is only because I devote 90% of my life to simply staying well. So, while I am not an invalid, my life is forever altered by Cystic Fibrosis. And unless God intervenes (and He has a way of doing that from time to time), I imagine I will walk this tight-rope of health for the rest of my natural life.

In the end, when the dust of life settles, even though there are people in the world who are much more limited by CF than I am, the one thing we all have in common is this: Coping with our illness is like being in a dysfunctional marriage. Of course, this is just one mans perspective. I should not presume to speak for everyone who has CF. But if you do have this illness (or any illness for that matter), think about it for a moment and try to be honest with yourself.

Illness demands our attention. Illness craves to be the center of our lives. It asks for our respect and fear. It holds our attention. It instructs us, both with truth and with lies. It raises its head whenever it wants, and sometimes in the most inopportune of times. Our illness fights with us. Wars with us, tries to wear us down by making us weary. And in the end we have to admit that life would have been far different had we not been dealt the cards we were dealt. But does “different” necessarily mean better? Let’s ponder some more truths, shall we.

As hard as my illness had been on me, there are times when I feel that even though my condition is like a terrible spouse, there is something to be learned from it. Like a terrible spouse I have moments with my condition where I see the wisdom it has to offer. I see that my illness is not always like a bad spouse. Sometimes, my illness is like a well-meaning drill sergeant who is pushing me beyond my limits in an effort to make me better. Or is it that I get stronger in spite of my illness. Or maybe I get stronger for the express purpose of spiting it; showing it that it cannot beat me, that it won’t beat me. But again, isn’t that just like the relationship between a drill sergeant and his soldier? Contentious. Acrimonious. Belligerent. Defiant. And in the end, strengthening by virtue of adversity? Iron sharpens iron, so the scripture says, and I suppose it is true.

Consider, for a moment, if I had never had CF. Would I have ever picked up a barbell in the first place? Well, maybe. But would I have trained as hard, or as long or for as many years? Would I still be working out? Would I be the person I am today? Would I be just as determined to survive? Would I be as tough as I am today? Let’s face it, most men and women never get fit, and if they do they tend to let themselves go after they reach their late 20’s. I am 43, and I am as strong as I have ever been. And I still get stronger.

So you see, having CF really doesn’t give me an option. I work out or I die. It is that simple. Either I take care of myself, or CF will take care of me. And I can tell you that CF doesn’t play nice. It plays rough and it plays mean. So, I train. And I train. And I keep doing it because I am healthier than I would be by far if I stopped training.

So, I have a healthier body than most people with CF, because most of them are leaning on medications, operations, lung transplants and ultimately they just never start doing what they can do to really improve the quality of their lives. Working out is hard. It is as tough and mean as CF is. I can understand why most people don’t do it, let alone people coping with a severe condition like CF.

Still, I made the choice I have made. Yes, in spite of my relative good state of health, I cough like crazy in the mornings. Sometimes for hours. But that is also a choice of mine. The way I approach my breathing in the morning takes effort and focus. And I do it with purpose. I have to. I have to keep my lungs clean. If there is stuff down there, and there usually is, I will not allow it to stay there. I need to be able to breath. And my fitness program helps me do that, along with some moderate medicinal indulgences and whatever Grace God sees fit to bestow upon me.

So, am I disabled? I don’t know. Maybe I am. In some ways, at least. I find it hard to work a traditional job. I have been broke most of my life because of it. I will not always be broke though. I can promise you that. But here are other issues. I don’t date much because I don’t wish to burden someone with my illness. Granted I have good health now, but for how long? I am isolated because I am not comfortable being around people when I am not feeling my best. I have to take certain medicines just to digest foods. Emotionally I am a wreck sometimes. I use to be angry at God much of the time, because CF can make me so weary. Just plain weary, man. But most of that anger is gone now. I am glad to have the health I have.

In closing, try to imagine knowing that every time you wake up in the morning you are going to spend the first 3-5 hours of the day forcing your lungs to get better. Imagine knowing you will never have kids, or that the chances of it are slim if you are male and have CF. And then imagine that this is how you will be until you die. What would you do? How would you live your life? How long would you want to live? Would you even want to live? Would you be a different person and if so, in what ways? Would you feel different from others? Just something to think about.

So again, the question remains. Am I disabled? Well, let’s just say that CF has a relentless habit of reminding me that it is there. Always there, lurking in the shadows of my mind, pressing my buttons whenever it chooses, slapping at my sense of well-being and ultimately taking sucker punches at me whenever it can. But know this: I am going to do my damnedest to punch back harder than it hits me, and I am going to do my best to take the hit that CF gives me. I think I will win this one. I hope so. I know I want to, and I think I have what it takes to do it.