You might need rescuing, but I don't

What happens when your life comes to an end? I'm not talking about death and I'm not talking about a 'part' of life. I'm talking about when something inside you dies; something within you. A friend has been living through this mess for a couple of years and has asked so many questions. Not just of herself, but of others.

When you're ready; when you eventually rise where you can see your life again, how do you know what to salvage and what to throw away? Is it all just varying degrees of flotsam where you grab onto what rises to the surface first? Too many questions. There will be parts you cannot remember, then later find in a box filled with notes and other paraphernalia of what your life was like before.

I still have the flower I plucked the morning Michelle died on the eleventh day of February in 1996. The following morning my grandmother died in the same hospital on another floor. I remember being in limbo that morning of the eleventh. I was racing between floors, but spent the bulk of my time in ICU with Michelle. That week was fucked. Two deaths, a day of reprieve, then two funerals.

I was slightly catatonic when I plucked a flower out of the garden as I limped out of the Mater around 5.30am. I still have it in a plastic bag inside a pencil case I stole from the Spring Hill markets when I was fourteen. It's the only thing I've ever stolen - from a shop, anyway.

In a way I've been a thief more times than most. I've stolen away with a new life, I've stolen love, time and fucked over death and I've made away with the spoils. Everyone has been a thief. Think back to what you last stole away with.

Which brings me to larceny.

Internal unrest can strike when you apportion your life to the public where intimate moments - through your choosing or not - become urban fodder. I can talk and write freely about having my cunt peeled like a grape, but there are other things that I will not share. It's a delicate balance when you put yourself on a platform and talk about bodily functions and the physical manifestations of a dis-ease but when other things happen, I choose not to share. With anyone. Even my closest friends. If I am sick in hospital I will not tell my friends because I have this thing. A thing you will never know about.

Along with presenting your health issues to the world, comes the whole 'I am not my illness' dictum, which has become more of a proverb. Illness has been a massive part of my life. No wait - illness has tried to interrupt what I do, but it is not what defines me. If someone believes that I am my dis-ease, they are to a point, correct. I knew from a very young age that to most people I'll always be 'Carly who has C.F', 'Carly who had the transplant' or 'Carly who [insert illness here]'. If I won an Academy Award, I'd be 'Carly who has C.F who won the Oscar'. I'll never be fine with that. It will always sit uncomfortably in my belly, but it's there.

I often wonder how my doctors and other medical practitioners see not just me, but other patients. Sometimes the illness is all they see. When I'm in hospital, I surround myself with the things that give me sustenance and purpose. Some people have photos on their bedside table, others have balloons and cards. I have books, music and all manner of writing paraphernalia spread across the room. And real coffee. Taking objects into hospital with me is often just as important as taking clothes. I do it so that when people come to see me, they're not just seeing a body in a bed that has nothing to say or nothing to give.

I have to be more than just a physical presence; I want to be something tangible. I don't do photos, flowers or balloons or 'Get Well Soon' cards. I already know that people's thoughts are with me so I find hospital-centric stuff like that ... insulting. I'm sorry, but I do. I know people are well meaning creatures but I don't want to be reminded (again) that I'm sick because I have enough reminders with blood tests, lung function, DVT's, stupid three and seven minute walks, having to talk to social workers, juggling meds with the pharmacist and possibly what I detest the most - engaging in banter with physios.

Physios are some of the grooviest people I've known in this life, but I find it strangely abhorrent when asked, 'so are you productive?' or 'what have you coughed up today?', 'what colour/texture/shape was it?' It reminds me of when I had C.F.

I still have C.F, but it reminds of my pre-transplant days when the most stimulating conversation I would have on any given day would go something like this:

[GP - groovy physio, CJ - me]

GP - 'What colour have you been coughing up?'
CJ - 'Well, I wouldn't say it's a verdant green. More like avocado. And I coughed this plug up this morning which was kind of ...'
GP - 'Dark green?'
CJ - 'No. It was brown. Shit brown.'
GP - 'Have you coughed up any blood?'
CJ - 'Why, yes I have.'
GP - 'What colour was it?'
CJ - 'Do you want a fucking colour atlas?'
GP - 'What do you mean?'
CJ - 'My Dad's a painting contractor, so here are some pretty Dulux names for you.'
GP - 'Right ...'
CJ - 'The green stuff is somewhere between 'sea kelp' and 'hookers green'; old blood is just like 'ox blood'. Then again, 'red pebbles' comes close, while the half a cup of fresh blood I coughed up last night was just like 'scarlet ribbons'. Anything else?'
GP - 'Sure! Was it thick?'
CJ - 'Of course it was fucking thick. The shit I'm bringing up is like slugs. Or clots. No wait, they're like clotty slugs - see?'

I'd cough up a slug and turn the cup upside down to demonstrate that it wasn't going anywhere because it was like chewing gum. Sputum also smells. After my transplant, I couldn't cope with other people coughing even though I had been doing it in grand style for twenty-one years. If I cough anything up now, I feel disgusted with myself as a sex worker would who, after years in the trade, can no longer have sex, is celibate and will never have sex again.

Sex is good, though. Coughing up phlegm? Not so much.