Here I am, sitting at the local Starbucks conveniently located at one of many luxurious shopping plazas in San Diego, California.  In the parking lot, my Toyota Scion is nestled between about every variety of BMW’s, Mercedes, and I think…a Maserati?! Forcing myself not to gawk at it, everyone else seems strangely at ease with the blatant displays of wealth.

The men here are walking in shorts and tight v-neck t-shirts, their tan and beautifully bulging arms swaying as they propel themselves forward; exerting confidence.  Occassionally their eyes dart away from whatever they are fixated at to admire the beauty of the San Diegan Woman. 

Tan and thin mid-20’s women seem to float in their Jimmy Choo’s, white pants and body hugging Chevron shirts.  They look around in their Ray Bans, clutching their Louis Vuitton and tossing their bleach blonde hair in the slight bay breeze.  How great of a life they must have!

Picture perfect San Diego…Picture perfect life of luxury with the slight scent of salty air.  I sit for about an hour, taking it all in, careful to not get too sunburnt as I am still on IV antibiotics and highly allergic to the California sun. 

Just about time to pack up and start my next round of inhaled therapies.  I smile because really, the past hour has been strangely wonderful.  The gentleman next to me, (unfortunately resembles a human instead of a the Incredible Hulk), turns and says, “That’s the best smile I have seen all day. You must have quite a good life.” 

I look at him and then back at the street.  He’s actually…right. 

Not a single model in front of me is smiling.  Not even one of the guys getting into their $100,000 car looks like they are enjoying their day. In the last hour, I haven’t noticed one child giggling as they are toted around in their designer stroller. 

We are all fighting battles of some sort.  Perhaps the beauty of being forced to retire at 26 due to a faulty genetic code …is the beauty itself.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the country club women wish they could be me at times.  Sitting and smiling in a Starbucks, not worrying about my unmanicured nails and unwashed bleach blonde pony tail. I can actually eat in the restaurants without worry it will go straight to my hips.

Perhaps, the men wish they could find a woman who loves them despite the income.  And wish they could spend time with the elusive woman rather than getting last minute phone calls and having to rush to the boardroom. 

Is it crazy to think that whatever problems we are enduring, somebody else maybe, quite possibly, has it worse?  Is it feasible to think that our constant misery could actually be our greatest gift because it has shown us compassion, brought us closer to those we love, and connected us in a way that we would not have considered if we weren’t constantly reminded we only had a few years left? 

Rather than being upset about spending 180 days now in the past year on IV’s and in the hospital, consider it my key.  My key to paradise.  My key to Netflix marathons during treatments.  My key to appreciate what I have been given as opposed to what I have lost.  My key to having extra hours of being able to build relationships with friends and family.  My key to some of the best dates of my life confined to hospital walls. My key to getting to know all of you and volunteering for the CFLF.   Cystic Fibrosis is my key to a depth in my soul that frankly,  I don’t think I would be even the slightest bit aware of if this disease didn’t knock me down right as I reached the top of every hill. 

I smile again.  The human is right.  I have a good life.