happy birthday to me. now, let's talk about dying.

Since being diagnosed with a lung disease that carries an average life expectancy of 50, birthdays have started to feel less like milestones and more like countdowns.

WOW, I'M NOT DEAD.

My birthday was yesterday, and like the past several birthdays, I found myself somewhat surprised to still be alive. Many friends and strangers also congratulated me for this feat. It was very nice. I felt extraordinarily fortunate and loved. But, while everyone was busy toasting to the miracle of my life, I couldn't help but fixate on its inevitable conclusion.

I've been through a lot. I'm like a cat with nine lives. Go ahead, pat me on the back—good on you, ol' chap. But how many lives do I have left after all these close calls? What if it's just one?

side note: highly recommend listening to this while reading this post, as it’s my favorite birthday song.

Growing up, I was a frail, sickly kid, constantly in and out of hospitals with mysterious illnesses and ailments like pancreatitis at eight years old, chronic bronchitis, asthma, tonsillitis, et al. Yet, I still took life for granted, spending the first half of it taunting death as a suicidal teen and reckless thrill-seeker. I was indifferent to death.

Until one February night,​ I woke​ up with the taste​ оf pennies​ оn​ my tongue.​ I remember coughing and feeling liquid fill​ my mouth —blood.​ At first,​ I thought​ іt was just​ a nosebleed, the dry winter air wreaking havoc​ оn​ my sinuses. But then the blood started spewing out with every cough, filling the porcelain sink with bright red splatters like​ a scene from​ a slasher flick.​ In that moment, death wasn't some abstract concept;​ іt was right there, waterboarding​ me from the inside.

After extensive genetic testing, endoscopes, sweat tests, and CT scans, I was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis, a genetic disorder you're born with that affects the lungs, pancreas, liver, kidneys, and intestine. The disease has no cure, and it carries an average lifespan of 40 -50 years. My lungs were scarred and infected, causing surrounding blood capillaries to burst. My initial prognosis was uncertain, as the disease manifested in strange, atypical ways. Most CF patients require daily therapies, and many need feeding tubes to get proper nutrition and maintain a healthy weight. Meanwhile, I'd been touring the world, playing rock shows, singing and hollering, crowd surfing, and throwing myself across stages... None of it made sense.

crowd surfing in London. Photo: Derek Bremner

While I remained in denial, my husband took the news harder than I did. He was terrified, convinced he couldn't survive without me. In a very public display of support, he posted about our hospital visits, vowing to forever stay by my side. Spoiler alert: Two months later, he had an affair with a groupie in Amsterdam, and that was the end of my life as I knew it. But that's a story for another time.

The end of my marriage coinciding with my diagnosis allowed me to shove the latter aside. Divorce became a full-time distraction from the reality of chronic illness. I put all my energy into surviving each day and slowly rebuilding my life from the ground up. I moved back to LA, where age-defying tonics and procedures are shoved down everyone's throats and my friends swore by “manifesting” illness away.

Then, the COVID pandemic hit. A week later, my divorce was finalized, and within the year, two of my lifelong best friends died. So, I made a record about all of it. I had no time or energy (or health insurance) to be sick.

Until pneumonia came knocking. Blood started crawling up my throat again, and my lungs betrayed me. Doctors were at a loss, throwing around suggestions like spinal taps, ongoing intravenous antibiotics, and lobectomies. From there, death anxiety took hold. I became terrified of dying. So terrified that I even tried to believe in God, a concept I've always lumped in with the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. No surprise, I couldn't muster a prayer or a shred of faith, but for the first time, I envied those who could. I wanted so badly to find comfort and reassurance. It's easy to say life isn't fair, but accepting life's unfairness becomes a Herculean task when you're the one left holding the short straw. I couldn’t stop thinking about how my mother would outlive me, chain smoking her menthol cigarettes while my lungs eroded away. How's that for irony? The Stunt Cunt always wins!

birthday note from my BFF

I got out my mind's violin and started playing a death march, moping and spiraling into fear. I wanted to talk about this death anxiety and death itself, but most loved one’s urged me to not be morbid and warned that dwelling on the "negative" could manifest deadly results. And that made me spiral even more. If people could supposedly think their way to health, could I be thinking myself to death? Usually, I wouldn't entertain such notions, but in the face of death, I found myself clutching crystals and begging the universe for one more chance. Imagine that—holding a piece of quartz and hoping it'll magically cure an incurable disease. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so I tried it. I sat there, rubbing rocks, trying to envision a long, healthy life, but all I could think about was the baby squirrel that died trapped under my house one winter. We found its half-petrified body curled up in its tail, and it broke my heart.

STANLEY RIP

Sometimes I find myself still wanting to feel how I felt
When you held me close after we found the dead animal under the house
I would spend nights hoping for earthquakes to shake you awake just so you would tell me that I was safe
Funny when they said I was dying I had suspicions you were crying only for yourself
Funny how I pretended for so long that you were somebody else
Little squirrel
Sometimes I find myself still wanting to feel how I felt
When I pretended to believe your lies
Little squirrel
Little squirrel

Sickness brings out the very young, insecure part of myself. It feels like another defect that makes me imperfect and not good enough. Cystic Fibrosis is a genetic disease, yet nobody in my family has it. I'm alone with it. Both parents must be carriers to inherit CF, and it's just luck of the draw that both of my parents gifted this to me without being cursed with it themselves. At times, I feel more embarrassed than unlucky. To be honest, I don't like to draw attention to the sickness because it makes me feel genetically insufficient. 

It's pretty simple to onlookers and clinicians alike: Confronting mortality is hard. And for a control freak like me, it's even harder. We all know we're going to die. All of us are dying all the time, a little more with every passing day. But when you get sick, it becomes more real, too real. It feels close. With a diagnosis comes an ever-present foreboding that can't be shaken off.  It's there, inching closer.  It's a constant exercise to overcome my fear of losing control. I seek to do this by reminding myself that there is that which we can control and that which we can't. Figuring out the difference is the hard part because we all know we're dying. Some of us just know it more.

Macaulay Culkin is my birthday twin

Western culture has an almost pathological fear of death. We sanitize it, hide it away in hospitals and nursing homes, and then act shocked when it comes knocking. We treat it as a taboo subject. It's impolite to bring it up because it's morbid and anxiety-inducing. The United States, and probably most Western societies, are death-denying/defying cultures. Living in Hollywood for two decades has only strengthened my fear of death; if aging is spurned, death is the ultimate defeat.

In contrast, other cultures embrace death. There's Mexico's Día de los Muertos, where death is not just acknowledged but celebrated. Eastern cultures see death as a mere transition. Rather than trying to outsmart death, they accept it as a fundamental part of life. Hindus view death as just another stop on the endless carousel of reincarnation.

For me, a good first step to accepting death is to normalize it. I'm trying to find peace with the idea of death while also trying to find peace in living. Even though I suspect the anger, cynicism, and dark humor have helped keep me alive —my way of refusing to go quietly into that good night, I don't want to die an angry asshole.

And on that note, I'll take a deep breath (while my lungs still can) and blow out the candles on my birthday cake. Here's to another year closer to the grave—let's make the most of it.

c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ

PS: pictures taken by Darian Zahedi

PPS: The chat I started in place of a post last week blew the fuck up with 200 replies! Thanks to everyone who engaged.

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