Dear Dad,

There are days when I’m still surprised you’re gone, when I have this nanoflash of a thought: Why haven’t I seen Dad in so long? It’s kind of shitty that he hasn’t been over. Then I remember.

That’s kind of how IPF is. I leave the house and take the stairs and think, Wow, I need to get in shape, and then remember that, no, it’s not that; it’s that I have a lung disease. Or I hear a pretty girl’s name and think, That would be a great name for a daughter, and then remember that motherhood is not in my future. Dr. Bennett told me she didn’t recommend it. That I’d be at high risk for miscarriage, premature delivery, pulmonary hypertension, stroke.

I couldn’t bear to lose a baby. I can’t ask Josh to risk my life for a baby that might not happen.

But never being a mom . . . that was quite a blow, Dad. That took a lot out of me. I can’t really talk about that anymore, because some things are just too sad. I think you understand.

On the happy side of things, Josh and I spent a long weekend in San Diego. He had a meeting with someone about something—he was very private about what—so I suspect it was about IPF and how to cure it. We rented a little house up the coast in La Jolla. Everyone is happy in La Jolla, and why wouldn’t they be? For one, it’s paradise. For two, Dr. Seuss used to live there, and I think his karma still hangs over the town.

Our house had a lemon tree in the backyard with actual ripe lemons on it, and we used them in cooking, because the landlord told us he couldn’t keep up with them. Avocados, too, so we ate a ton of guacamole. We went swimming, and snorkeling, and I even tried surfing, and for a few seconds, I stood up and it was AMAZING, Dad! I was so proud that my tragic stuffy lungs could do everything, even though I conked out at three p.m. that day and slept for six hours.

And then . . . we went hang gliding. Well, I went, because Josh is afraid of heights, but he bravely stood on the ground and filmed me. Oh, Dad, it was the best. The place was on a cliff over the ocean, and no one was going up because it was a little too windy. So we sat and waited, then went down to the street to have lunch, and then came back, and it was still too windy. I finally walked over to the guy and said, “Look. I’m dying. We’re leaving Tuesday morning. My husband will sign anything you want, but you need to get me up there.”

He asked what was making me die, and I told him it was IPF. “Well, shit,” he said. “My mom died of the same thing. Get suited up.”

Half an hour later, I was ready. Gabe, my handsome and lovely instructor, was strapped to me so I wouldn’t crash. He told me to walk/trot to the edge of the cliff, but I RAN, Daddy, practically dragging Gabe behind. I wasn’t even a little afraid. Josh yelled, “Go get ’em, babe!” and then the wind caught under the wings, and we swooped up, and I was laughing and laughing with glee. The ocean was so beautiful and the sky . . . oh, it was so clear and blue. I could see the cove where all the sea lions hang out, and the buildings in the distance, but I just wanted to look out at the ocean and sky, and even with the wind roaring in my ears, and being strapped to Gabe, I felt so . . . calm. So happy to live in this beautiful world, Dad. So glad to be me.

Even with everything.

Being in La Jolla was like a vacation from real life, which I suppose is true of every vacation. But my IPF behaved while I was there, and I didn’t cough too much, though I needed a nap every day. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Josh said if I wanted to move here, it was a done deal. But I want to be near Jen and Sebastian and Baby X, Darius and Mom, Sarah, Asmaa and Bruce and all the little kids at the Hope Center, even if they’re disgusting germ sponges. The trip was wonderful. It was perfect. The two of us are perfect.

Love you, Daddy!

Lauren