The Purge

“You’re going to experience what we call ‘the purge’ for the first couple of days when you start the medication,” my pharmacist, Jonathan, told me. Jonathan was explaining to me all the details of my new medication, Alyftrek, to help me with my cystic fibrosis. First of all, I can’t even believe I have a pharmacist, and I know his name and phone number. Jonathan is a kind, young Black man who is the pharmacist at the adult CF clinic and who took 2 hours to sit with me and explain everything about this new drug I would be taking. Second, I can’t believe that I have access to a medication that will support my medical condition, CF. A medical condition that I never knew if the doctors could figure out. I was losing hope that they would find out what was wrong with me. It took almost 41 years, well over 100 pneumonias, multiple hospitalizations, every type of antibiotic (pill, IV, and nebulized), and permanent lung damage in my lower left lobe to diagnose. Now I have a diagnosis and a medication that is not an antibiotic to help me. The cost of this medication is $28,000 for a 28-day supply. A thousand dollars a day, and I pay nothing out of pocket. Life feels uncomfortably favorable; a feeling that is so foreign that I can only explain it as a miracle. 

Little did I know that “the purge” that Jonathan explained would happen not only because of the medication, but also due to recognizing my trauma. 2026, I received the gift of multiple diagnoses - cystic fibrosis, survivor of incest and childhood sexual abuse, and complex PTSD. All these diagnoses are awful, scary, and have quite significant and shitty health outcomes, but there is tremendous power in a name. Now, I know what is wrong with me. Now, I can understand myself better. Now, I can actively and intentionally take care of myself in ways that are healing. I am no longer throwing spaghetti at the wall, hoping that something sticks.  

“The purge” is gut-wrenching. I have been nauseous, throwing up, experiencing nightmares, panic attacks, and having diarrhea for too many days now, even weeks. I hope it calms down soon and that everything currently in my system leaves my body. At least, I desire a reprieve, knowing that I cannot purge everything all at once, even if I want to. My therapist keeps mentioning that this stage is about managing my trauma because it will never be cured. I don’t know if I find that soothing or terrifying; a quiet panic settles in my body as I anxiously await the fun memories I get to relive in my mind when I least expect them. At the same time, this is the first time in my life that I feel like my mind, body, and soul are trying to integrate. Dissociation was the name of the game my whole life. Compartmentalize, dissociate from my body, break away from all the different parts of myself to survive. The little girl who was sick and had cystic fibrosis was not the same little girl who was being sexually abused by her father, who was also not the same little girl who was learning English and adapting to American culture. In my mind, those are different people, not the same person. This purge, these diagnoses, have painfully reminded me that they were all me, and my body has experienced it all, all at the same time. 

As I sit with this nausea, I try to pay attention and scan how my body is feeling. I notice my accelerated heart rate from the dry heaving I experienced this morning. I also notice the calm in my heart, even with the pounding. My intention for myself and my future is to integrate all parts of who I am. Align my mind, body, and soul with all their beautiful imperfections and flaws. To feel at ease in my own body and mind while acknowledging all the pain it has suffered and all the strength it has had to survive. I want to say thank you to my mind and my body for protecting me, and that they can rest a little now. Letting other human beings care for me and not needing to do it all alone. Thank you.