I’ve got a list of diagnoses a mile long, including diabetes, afib, and sleep apnea; however, it’s the COPD (which is just a pretty way of saying emphysema) that’s trying to put a timestamp on my life. They say three to five years. That’s the math. The worst part of that math is knowing I wrote the equation myself. Forty-five years of heavy smoking has caught up to me, and now my lungs are paying the debt I racked up. I have nobody to blame but the person in the mirror.
But here’s the thing: I’m not willing to die this young. I’m not done yet. Fuck that!
I am crossing every "t" and dotting every "i" the doctors give me. My meds are taken on time, every single day, with no excuses. I’m watching the weight and fighting for every pound lost, because I know that as the scale goes down, the mobility comes back. I’m looking forward to the day when moving doesn’t feel like a mountain climb, when I can actually exercise and reclaim some of the ground I’ve lost.
I’m following the orders, but I’m keeping my fire. I do not intend to give in to this fucking stupidass disease. It might have a plan for me, but I have a better one.
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