“This is ‘year 17’ since I was diagnosed. Back then there were only two meds and you heard the ‘3-5 years.’ Don’t listen to statistics…! You can choose to lay down and let it control your life or you look it in the face and say ‘not this time’… I’m not giving up without a fight!” -Dawn Meador, PH Patient
The year Dawn is talking about is 2015 and in her first world country, the treatment and management of PH has improved by leaps and bounds. Back in Africky, we are still in the only two meds and ‘3-5 years’ life expectancy trenches. And the meds available are the under-achievers of the PH meds. The guys who just about scrape through every exam and who will be voted “most likely to be forgotten”.
But it’s all we have and it’s better than nothing, right?
I’ve never been much of a runner. Tried running in my early 20s, joined a club, got the gear, etc. but never amounted to much. Which means in the fight or flight situation, I fight because I’m a crap runner. I fight tooth and nail, unless my survival instinct kicks in and carries my legs for me. Enter pulmonary hypertension and I have less teeth and nails thanks to all the fighting I’ve been doing.
You know that five stages of grief thing?
1) Denial & Isolation
This is how mine goes.
DENIAL & ISOLATION: I don’t really do denial but isolation is my thing. Withdraw from everyone and everything and just hole up with the boys. Until people start commenting about not seeing you and is everything ok and you’re forced to socialize again.
ANGER: Why? Why him? Why me? Why my child’s father? Again? Really? You’re really going to take another of my persons?
BARGAINING: I’ve always been a crap haggler. Stallholders see me coming and know I will pay the first price they give me. I don’t do bargaining.
DEPRESSION: I think I’m just coming out of this phase. Been deep and dark and I have spoken to close friends who were great with talking me out of it. I went to some pretty scary places in my head, but I think I’m mostly back. Thanks for baking cupcakes and bringing lots of wine. You know who you are.
ACCEPTANCE: NOT THIS TIME, MOTHERFUCKER. My husband does not have 2 years left. He has 20 plus years left.