Getting Real

One of the most refreshing things I've realized about running into a CF person  (family member or actual CFer)  is the immediate inquiring about their well-being and the honest answer, even if there's trouble.  No Fine, fine ; and how is Tilly?  nonsense  (Well, I guess it's not nonsense if everything is fine!).  If they're on the third hospitalization this year or picked up some egregious bug or became resistant to an effective antibiotic ~ it's said.  And we discus what the doc's plan is and how their mood is.  And no one squeals, Oh my God how do you handle that?  Or simpers, God must think you are so strong to give you this.  Or chirps,  You've got to pray believing in healing  (Sarcasm aside, we do indeed beg prayers and lift rejoicings for folks in need.).

But we are real  (Definition : genuine ; not artificial).  Even perfect, hot mama suburbanites get real when talking about their kids' CF issues.  No Christmas letter litanies of accomplishments only.  We nod and question and explain and share and learn.  We might tear up or shake our heads or curse.  We might chat about babies or teenagers or life or death or the stupid new rules at the hospital.  We get smarter and stronger.  Sometimes sadder.  Wiser because of our candid conversation.

Get real, I would snarl at my parents with a roll of my eyes, and I'm pretty sure they were thinking the same about snotty, know-it-all me!  I am, now.  At least, more real, which means growth, which means life.

"My mother had a slender, small body, but a large heart -- a heart so large that everybody's grief and everybody's joy found welcome in it, and hospitable accommodation."

                                                         Mark Twain


Warmly.  Really,
Allison