CVD: Unexpectedly Expected

Reflecting on my life, I admit I did not expect this outcome. I've had CVD since birth, so any complications are not uncommon. However, the concept of providing "hope" to a sick person only to encourage them to get better temporarily without thinking of a long-term goal is, in my opinion, irresponsible.

Yet, it leads to only one inevitable conclusion. There was no long-term goal. The hope, unlike in stories, was temporary and flitters away like dried rose petals falling from a crusty stem.

I was always told that if I rested and recovered, I would get "better." And when I eventually got better, then I would be able to do everything I had missed out on for reasons of dying at the time. This happened again and again and again and again et nauseam, always with the hope that if I just kept going a little harder, a little faster, a little stronger, then I could "be better."

Given what I know now, it has long puzzled me why this was repeatedly told to me. It was undoubtedly well-intended and meant to inspire hope—naturally, because without hope, what is there to live for? However, after having traveled for so long, I have finally come to understand that the very thing that has saved my life and maintained every ticking heartbeat is what is holding me back and likely always will to some ever-increasing degree.

Granted, I am not an idiot, and I always knew this. However, there is a difference between knowing, understanding, and accepting. If one grew up fighting their whole life for something that was never theirs to begin with, but was given to others freely with no other reason other than they didn't have your condition, how would you feel?

I remember reading a news article as a child, learning about a surgeon in a wheelchair and seeing the staff gathering around her in this picture showing nothing but adulation for someone overcoming the unfairness of their oppressive illness. I found such a thing inspiring. I don't remember the surgeon or much about it other than the woman being ill and still managing to prove her worth through academia. She ended up wanted by her beloved friends and colleagues for it—a true Cinderella story.

Then, as I look out at my little town and see the cobbled streets shining on a fresh spring day, I realize that I did not want the world. I wanted to see castles, fortresses, and monuments of ancient history and beauty, both great and small, because I wanted to experience them. I wanted to protect these things that I knew needed protecting in a similar way to how I grew up. Yet, these places of aged wisdom may be the very thing making me ill.

Learning that my illness might be the very thing that keeps me from doing what I have dedicated fifteen years of my life to is heartbreaking. But what is worse is the hole it leaves behind. Do I find a way to stay? Do I move on? Can I move on?

This is why I write. Growing up, reading allowed me to travel and explore the world from the comfort of a page and an armchair. I can share my experiences with others via the written word. If I do have to stop traveling, I will write full-time instead.

Who else has had their heart condition or chronic illness stop them from achieving their dreams?