Day 11: The road to self-destruction was well signposted I still wanted that education, I wanted to work in a library, I wanted to travel, and I wanted a family. And it all seemed so elusive. More significantly, I was starting to believe this constant narrative that was thrown at me. Who was I to dream of, having a job, travelling, or having a family? Sooner or later, my CF would progress, and instead of watching my friends die, I would be the one slowly drowning as my lungs filled with mucus. So, I pushed the boundaries with destructive behaviour. I experimented with drugs, alcohol, and even cigarettes. I went out and danced all night. I didn’t look after myself. I stopped doing my treatments. The drop in my health directly reflected how I treated my body. As a consequence, I started to have hospital admission more frequently. But I told myself that my decline was as it should be. Because getting sick was my job description. I had Cystic Fibrosis. I was a Cystic Fibrosis sufferer. Still, a little part of me wanted more. A tiny voice told me if I could change the narrative, the life I wanted could be mine.
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Day 10: As an adult, I needed a job to survive “We’re done here,” he said as he placed a big cross against my name. “You’re not fit to work.” “But you haven’t even examined me,” I protested. “Don’t need to. You won’t be able to hold down a job.” “What?” I asked, my indignation plain, “Not even in a library?” “Certainly not. The books are too dusty. They’ll make you cough.” Back at the company, I asked if they would accept a medical report from my doctor. But the answer was a firm no. The dust on books, as it turned out, wasn’t my biggest problem. Despite my bad experience in high school, working in a library was still my dream job — even though I hadn’t yet worked up the courage to apply for another library position. This seemed like a further sign I should give up that dream. I took the only job I could get. I faced deep barriers set by shallow people. I went to job interview after job interview, only to watch the interviewer’s smiles fade when they got to the medical information in my job application. Sure, I could have lied, skipped that bit — but it didn’t seem honest to leave it out. All I wanted was a chance. Finally, in desperation, I applied to Coles as a part-time checkout operator. I landed the job straight away. I tried to convince myself it would only be for a little while, but a niggling fear remained at the back of my mind. The first time Mr. Critch, my former homeroom, and ancient history teacher, came through my checkout, he didn’t say much. But after a few months had passed and I remained at the checkout counter, he shook his head sadly and said. “Sandi, you’re better than this.” I waved my hand dismissively and smiled. It was easier than admitting the truth — that no one else had been willing to give me a go.
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Written bySandi Parsons - Cystic Fibrosis Warrior. |