The Dangerous Side of Feeling Healthy.

Yesterday I offered to babysit my sick grandson.

Not just any sick grandson.

A toddler with hand, foot and mouth disease. A highly contagious virus. The kind that spreads through daycare centers with military efficiency.

I called my son and generously offered my services.

He thanked me.

Then he said:

"Dad, I think you've forgotten you're a lung transplant patient."

I replied, completely sincerely:

"Why?"

There was a pause.

The kind of pause usually reserved for people who have just walked into a glass door.

The strange thing is that I wasn't joking.

For a few moments, I had genuinely forgotten.

Not forgotten the transplant itself. The scar makes sure of that.

Not forgotten the medications. At least not intentionally.

I had forgotten the part where I am supposed to be careful.

The part where every cough, every fever, every enthusiastic toddler carrying a new virus is potentially my problem.

For years, illness dominated every decision.

Can I go?

Should I stay home?

Who's sick?

How crowded is it?

Where is the nearest exit?

Then something wonderful happened.

Life became normal.

Or normal-ish.

Which is where the trouble starts.

Because being sick is exhausting.

But being healthy after being sick can be surprisingly dangerous.

The better you feel, the easier it becomes to forget why you spent years learning caution.

This morning provided further evidence.

Without the helpful and slightly annoying reminder on my phone, I forgot to take my medications.

Not one medication.

All of them.

The very medications responsible for keeping my transplanted lungs peacefully attached to their current owner.

Apparently my confidence is progressing faster than my memory.

Nobody talks much about this phase.

Everyone talks about surviving.

About recovery.

About getting your life back.

Far fewer people talk about what happens when you actually do.

Because eventually the oxygen concentrator disappears.

The hospital visits become less frequent.

You stop feeling like a patient.

You start feeling like yourself again.

And that's exactly when your guard starts to drop.

The irony is almost impressive.

When I was severely ill, I rarely forgot I was sick.

Now that I'm doing well, I occasionally forget I'm not.

My son reminded me.

My phone reminded me.

My pillbox reminded me.

Apparently an entire support system has been assembled to compensate for my growing belief that nothing bad can happen.

Which, to be fair, is a much nicer delusion than the alternatives.

The challenge for transplant patients, and for many people with chronic illness, is learning how to live in two realities at the same time.

One reality says:

"You're fine. Go enjoy your life."

The other says:

"Wash your hands. Take your pills. Stay away from the adorable biological weapon with the runny nose."

Neither reality is wrong.

The trick is surviving somewhere in the middle.

Because the goal was never to remain a patient forever.

The goal was to return to life.

The problem is that life occasionally forgets to read the instruction manual.