My lungs suck. No. Wait a minute. They don’t suck. That’s the problem–they don’t suck at all. They just sit there—in my chest cavity—taking up space. It’s cruddy. No kidding.
Complaining about it doesn’t make my rotten lungs any better, so I don’t do it . . . all the time. Not everyday, anyway.
Because of my nonfunctioning lungs, I have to wear supplemental oxygen all the time. That sucks. Really. I have a machine that sucks pure oxygen out of the air and pumps it into my lungs. It’s great to suck.
There are some days, however, that I wonder if it’s worth the hassle to even get out of bed. I’m serious. Getting out of bed means I have to breathe more. Then, when that happens, I have to get clean. Then I see pictures of my children, grandchildren, and get on my computer and see my friends on the Internet and I say to myself, “Yes. Yes. All of this stuff. All of my suffering. All of my highs and lows–everything . . . it’s all worth it . . . It’s great to suck.”