In January 2024, I found myself unable to breathe—not just in the metaphorical sense but literally. Phlegm built up in my throat, choking me until I was gasping for air. Each exhale felt like a crushing weight on my chest. The panic attacks returned, and with them came a terrifying thought: Is this how Dylan felt in his last moments? Gasping for air, alone and afraid?
I tried to rationalize it—maybe it was my smoking habit, maybe acid reflux. I saw doctors and specialists. The ENT prescribed medications, but instead of relief, I felt worse. I went through tests: an endoscopy, swallowing exams, chest X-rays. Each one ruled out the more common causes. “Minimal acid reflux,” they said, “nothing severe enough to explain your symptoms.” Yet, I was still choking, suffocated by something I couldn’t define.
That's when I stumbled upon the concept of "grief lungs." It struck me how grief had trapped me physically, not just emotionally. My posture had collapsed from endless hours of sitting in my chair, lost in thought. I had been frozen there, trying to process everything—Dylan's death, the existential questions that kept me up at night, the overwhelming pain of returning to a world that no longer felt familiar. I wanted to change, to heal my body and my mind, but life had other plans.
A fire forced me to start over yet again. Still, the symptoms persisted. The phlegm, the pain in my chest, my neck, and my shoulder—it all weighed me down. I kept searching for answers, wondering if my body was punishing me for the trauma I hadn’t fully let go of.
The panic attacks got worse. I had worked so hard to overcome them in the past. Meditation, mindfulness, and self-awareness had helped me survive Dustin’s hardest years, yet here I was again, terrified to sleep because I thought I might not wake up. I feared my body would betray me in the night.
Eventually, I ruled out anything life-threatening, which helped ease some of the fear. But the pain on my right side became concerning, especially when I noticed a bulge during coughing. Another round of tests began, and finally, through a 23andMe DNA test, I found a clue: a high risk for non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD).
When my doctor confirmed it, I was devastated. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Alcohol had haunted my life for as long as I could remember. I had spent years fighting to keep Dustin from following the path of his alcoholic father. Alcohol had already stolen Dylan from me when a drunk driver took his life. And now here I was—facing a disease often linked to alcohol, even though I’ve never been a heavy drinker. How could this be happening?
The irony is suffocating. Alcohol has already destroyed so much, and now it threatens me in a different form. I’m being forced to confront yet another challenge rooted in something that has caused me endless pain.
Now, I have to make major changes to my life: quit smoking, quit soda, quit sugar. I’ll learn more at tomorrow’s doctor appointment, but I’m already overwhelmed. Exercise? I can do that. But learning to eat differently? That feels impossible. Cigarettes have been my crutch, my way of surviving the silence and grief that Dylan left behind. What will I do without them?
It’s a terrifying thought, but I know this: I can’t let this disease define me. Just like I’ve battled through grief, trauma, and loss, I’ll have to battle through this too. I’ll take it one step at a time, even if I stumble. My health journey isn’t just about survival—it’s about reclaiming my body and my life after everything I’ve endured.
This isn’t just about quitting bad habits. It’s about learning to breathe again, to move through the pain without letting it consume me. It’s about healing in ways I never thought possible—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m learning to listen to my body. It’s been trying to speak to me all along.
For now, I’ll keep moving forward, slowly but surely. Each step—whether it's a walk outside, a moment of reflection, or simply taking a deep breath—is progress. I’ll continue this journey not just for myself, but for Dylan, for my family, and for anyone who feels trapped by their pain.
We carry so much within us, but we also have the power to heal.
With love and hope,
Liz
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