Four Years

Four years ago this morning, I woke up from a double lung transplant.

It was not, if I’m being honest, a great day (besides the obvious), and definitely not an easy one.

Every August 27th since has been almost as difficult.

Despite the parties — hell, during the parties — and whatever I’ve written here, I’ve spent most of my transplantiversaries mired in one level of depression or another: dark and heavy and tired, worrying that I cheated, that I haven’t done enough, that the clock is ticking.

Some years are, obviously, better than others.

This is not one of those years.

Still, whining about how hard it is to be alive feels a little self-indulgent.

But so does lying about it.

So, instead, a public acknowledgment: I’m glad I’m not dead. But. I’ve still got a long way to go before I’m comfortable with that.

Before I feel like I’ve actually earned that feeling.