Meet Steve. He has lived for 28 beautiful years. That's seven years longer than they said he would when he was born. Because of his stupid Cystic Fibrosis. But, that's just how he rolls.
He's the kind of guy who was born to break rules and upset norms. He has hitch hiked through Mexico, spent some time hang gliding over Brazil. and he threw himself out of a plane over London with us to raise money for the Cystic Fibrosis Trust. When he talks to you, you'll put your life on hold just to listen. When he reveals that his little brother also has CF, you'll understand that love transcends everything. When he laughs, it's the kind of sound that will make you grateful for every breath you take (hence the nickname Stevie Wheezy). When he acts casually about the scar on his stomach where they removed his liver and replaced it with a new one, you'll think he must've been the strongest 11-year-old anyone ever knew. He was. And he hasn't changed. He has huge dreams and high hopes and a heart so big you'll worry your own might burst because of it.
Last summer, Steve spent almost 40 days in the hospital; he had a bad lung bleed the docs couldn't seem to get under control. He endured one awful, invasive procedure after another, awake and aware the entire time. You'd expect him to lose hope, humour, and heart, all the stuff that gets us through tough times. But, here's the thing about Steve: My strongest memory of being in that hospital room with him is not waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of him vomiting blood, but the one where he was so high on Dilaudid that I had to chase him down the hallway because he was wearing his hospital gown as a cape and waving a fake sword through the air, claiming that he was Zoro. Or, the time his nurse woke us up at 6am to witness an incredible sunrise in the sitting room because she just knew he was the kind of human that would appreciate a beautiful moment. That. Is. Steve.
We all watch as your lungs refuse to let you laugh too hard but your heart refuses to care. Your pancreas no longer allows you to digest your food but your appetite for everything knows no different. Your illness tries to determine your life expectancy but your love of just being here squashes any anger that threatens to surface and it never ceases to amaze us. We learn from you, we live life better because of you, and we only hope to one day be like you.
You. Are. Finity.