Just after I turned 21, I planned my own funeral. Not because I was curious about what it might look like, but because I had to. End-stage cystic fibrosis (CF) had forced my hand into making choices I did not want to make, and my remaining hope for survival was in receiving a double lung transplant, the likelihood of which was growing slimmer by the day. Then, with just days to live, I got “the call”.
From a young age I became an expert in the art of adaptation. While being born with a life-limiting (and life-ending) illness may have coloured my life with an underbelly of darkness, I could always trust myself to grasp onto splinters of light in the inky mire of hopelessness. These were
