by Angela Moore
Growing up. It's hard enough isn't it?
Try being her.
A girl who seeks normalcy on a daily basis.
A girl whose pale face and frail body wanted so much, just to make it to the next day.
Each day faced a new challenge; a new doctor, a new hospital, a new medicine.
These seemingly abnormal occurences soon became a part of her daily routine.
Or shall I say, our daily routine.
My sister, still a child, was plagued with struggles each and every day.
Attempting to overcome what should be fairly simple.
Breathing.
Each breath, strained and raspy, was a haunting reminder.
A reminder of what she would be faced to accept for the rest of her life.
Cystic Fibrosis.
A disease that made life's greatest simplicities, a luxury.
A disease that made it impossible to 'Go for the Gold' and face life head on.
Or so we thought.
Little did my parents know, that raised a fighter.
A strong, independent and brave, fighter.
Each day we prayed for some kind of cure, aid or alleviation.
A break from this 'thing' that tried to consume her life.
And with no cure in our line of sight, we were limited.
With nowhere to turn, we thought there were no options left.
We thought this was it.
It wasn't.
Giving up would not be that easy.
I awoke, startled, on the morning of September 11th, 2004.
The day that was typically spent commemorating the lost,
Would now be spent in a hospital.
In room 13.
That day, someone gave my sister the greatest gift of all.
New lungs. New life. A second chance.
Instead of watching this disease drain the life from my sister,
I watched it become less controlling; slowly losing its grip.
It no longer had a grasp on her like it used to.
It was just, there.
There may be no medicine to cure what she has.
And there may be no way to rid it from her body completely.
But she will always have what some people don't.
Another breath.
