By Abby Alten SchwartzSpecial to The Washington PostA knock. Then my daughter’s pulmonologist walked into our exam room. Behind him was our nurse practitioner, uncharacteristically somber and avoiding eye contact.
A brick landed in my stomach.We were at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia for one of the clinic visits we regularly made since Sammie was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis shortly before age 2. My husband and I sat on plastic chairs, Sammie, then 7, on the paper-lined table.
The doctor said Sammie’s lower airways sounded “coarse” and he “heard crackles in her lungs.” He also saw a shadow on her chest X-ray. These symptoms, along with her recent drop in weight and pulmonary function, all pointed to a lung infection.
“I want her on IV antibiotics for two weeks. Go home, pack, and bring her to admissions tomorrow morning,” he said.The rest of our visit was a blur of instructions and note taking.
In the hallway, I broke away from my husband and Sammie.“Be right back,” I said, ducking around a corner before I lost my composure.I pulled out my phone and called my lifeline.
“Tell me,” Val answered.Cystic fibrosis is a genetic disease that causes a buildup of sticky mucus in the airways, pancreas and other organs. It’s a life-shortening illness that eventually destroys the lungs.
Val, another CF mom, is my person, my anchor. My safe place to vent frustrations, unpack my worries and, occasionally, fall apart.The safety of a shared bondWithin our frien.
