Nelly Furtado sat in the sterile, white-walled clinic, her hands gripping the edges of her chair. The faint hum of fluorescent lights above her felt deafening. Her chest tightened—not from the cystic fibrosis that had plagued her for years, but from the overwhelming anxiety that came with being in a doctor’s office.
The door creaked open, and Dr. Fishbein walked in, his lab coat slightly askew and his clipboard balanced precariously in one hand. His round glasses magnified his eyes, giving him an almost cartoonish appearance.
“Nelly,” he began, his voice nasal but oddly cheerful, “we’ve reviewed your latest tests. Your lung function has declined significantly. It’s time we seriously consider a lung transplant.”
Nelly’s breath hitched, and she shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said, her voice trembling. “I—I can’t. I don’t want to go through that.”
Dr. Fishbein set the clipboard down with a theatrical sigh, clasping his hands together as though preparing for a monologue. “I understand this is overwhelming, but this could give you a new lease on life! Without it, well… let’s just say things won’t improve.”
Nelly’s heart raced. The thought of surgery—of doctors poking and prodding, of tubes and machines—was unbearable. She had always hated hospitals, their antiseptic smell and cold, impersonal atmosphere. They reminded her of fragility, of mortality.
“I can’t,” she repeated, tears welling in her eyes. “I just… I can’t.”
Dr. Fishbein leaned in, his tone suddenly conspiratorial. “Look, I know it’s scary, but think of it as a grand adventure! You’ll be the phoenix rising from the ashes! Take your time to decide, but remember, the clock is ticking.”
Later that evening, Nelly sat on her couch, staring out the window at the city lights. Her mind raced with fear and doubt. Would she even survive the surgery? What if it didn’t work? The idea of trusting her life to doctors and machines felt impossible.
A knock on the door broke her spiral of thoughts. It was Joe. He had always been her rock, her steady hand in the storm.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. “You doing okay?”
She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “They want me to get a lung transplant.”
Joe sat beside her, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a big decision.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted. “I don’t trust doctors. I don’t trust… any of it.”
Joe took her hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Nelly looked at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t make it?”
Joe’s gaze was steady. “What if it does work? What if this gives you the chance to sing again, to breathe without pain, to live?”
She closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. She thought about all the songs she hadn’t written yet, the places she hadn’t seen, the moments she hadn’t lived.
After a moment, Joe added, “But hey, before we even get to the transplant, there’s something else we could try. Have you thought about changing your diet?”
Nelly opened her eyes, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Joe hesitated, then said, “Dr. Fishbein’s diet for cystic fibrosis. Remember? The one that’s all about dairy—cheese, milk, cream, milkshakes, and cheeseburgers. I mean, come on, doesn’t that sound like something out of a bad comedy?”
She blinked at him. “That’s… the exact opposite of what I need.”
“Exactly,” Joe said, shaking his head. “And have you looked at the guy? He looks like a quack to me. You know he’s a clown school dropout, right?”
Nelly let out a disbelieving laugh. “A clown school dropout? You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Joe said, grinning. “He couldn’t juggle, and apparently, his balloon animals were terrifying. So, he became a doctor instead, and now he’s pushing milkshakes and cheeseburgers for cystic fibrosis patients. Makes total sense, right?”
Nelly shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “That’s… absurd.”
Joe smiled softly. “Look, I’m not a doctor, but what if you tried cutting out dairy for a while? Just to see if it helps. I know you love cheese and ice cream, but if it makes a difference in how you feel, isn’t it worth it?”
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I guess I could try. But it feels like one more thing to give up, you know?”
“I get it,” Joe said. “But maybe it’s not about giving up. Maybe it’s about making space—for the things that really matter. Like your voice. Your health. Your life.”
Taking a deep breath—shallow and labored, but hers—she opened her eyes. “I’m scared, Joe.”
“I know,” he said. “But courage isn’t about not being scared. It’s about doing what you need to do, even when you are.”
For the first time that day, Nelly felt a flicker of hope. Maybe she could face this. Maybe she could trust the doctors, the process, herself.
And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to breathe freely again.