Five Feet Apart

by Rachael Lippincott

I wonder, all too often, what it would be like to have lungs this healthy. This alive. I take a deep breath, feeling the air fight its way in and out of my body.

People are always looking at my cannula, my scars, my G-tube, not at me.

If I’m going to die, I’d like to actually live first.

If we’re 60 percent water, I’m closing in on the remaining 40 percent being pudding.

“Most of us can’t have children, a lot of us never live long enough to try. Only other CFers know what this feels like, but we’re not supposed to fall in love with each other.” She stands up, determined. “So, after all that CF has stolen from me—from us—I’m stealing something back.”

“Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.”

“We need that touch from the one we love, almost as much as we need air to breathe. I never understood the importance of touch, his touch . . . until I couldn’t have it.”