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The air is crisp on an overcast afternoon in New Brunswick, Canada. A winter’s worth of accumulated snow is packed underfoot as Allison strolls across the field of her neighbor’s farm. Her radiant smile and pink cheeks are a testament to her current good health. She exhales an effortless breath; the moisture hangs visibly in the winter air—a seemingly simple act, but one that has been nearly impossible to do for much of her adult life. Allison turns her face toward the wind and declares with deep satisfaction, “I can breathe.”

Allison was born with cystic fibrosis (CF), a condition she shares with her older sister, Amy. CF is a genetically inherited disease in which the body produces thick and sticky mucus that clogs the lungs, causing breathing difficulties, and obstructs the pancreas, leading to digestive issues. The disease is progressive and fatal. People with CF have a shortened lifespan, typically dying in their 30s and 40s. A published author, Allison has written two memoirs, Wanderlust and Transplanted, that chronicle her experiences living with CF. However, the stories she weaves together are not solely about CF—they include stories of biking across Canada with 45% lung capacity, receiving a double-lung transplant, and surviving posttransplant lymphoproliferative disease (PTLD), a rare and aggressive cancer. In all cases, Allison has beaten the odds by staying alive. Her stories are a testament to her ability to maintain a zest for life, compassion for others, and a keen sense of humor while facing life’s darkest moments.

From birth, Allison’s health was in peril. Just minutes into life, her tiny body faced a life-threatening situation—an intestinal blockage required an invasive procedure to empty her bowels. “I was in and out of the hospital for the first five years of my life for severe digestive issues. I wasn’t able to absorb enough calories, nutrients, or vitamins,” she says. “I used to throw up after I ate.” Concerned with her lack of weight gain, her doctor inserted a jejunostomy tube (J-tube) when Allison was 18 months old. The feeding device remained in her small intestine until she was six. Maintaining weight has been a lifelong issue. As Allison writes humorously in her book, Wanderlust: “Most people feel guilty when they eat a piece of cake, I feel guilty if I don’t eat the piece of cake.”¹

Despite Allison and Amy’s constant lung infections and digestive problems, their parents took all three kids (Allison, Amy, and their younger brother, David) hiking and camping every summer. Their dad taught them baseball and soccer, never letting Allison or her sister’s disease become the defining factor in what they could or couldn’t do. When Allison turned 14, she was connected with the Make-a-Wish Foundation, through which she was given Sydney, her horse and companion to this day. “Horseback riding, carrying saddles, and shoveling horse poop kept me active throughout high school,” she says.

Throughout her 20s, her health kept deteriorating. In a short period of time, she got pneumonia twice and her lung function fell to a dangerous 28% capacity. “I felt like this was it. I was dying,” she says. “I could barely move.” There was one option to extend her life, something her parents had talked about many times: a double-lung transplant. It was a risky prospect and would require Allison to move away from her rural town, likely for years, to be in Toronto—a city with top-notch medical facilities, including a transplant clinic. “I wondered hard whether or not that was how I wanted to spend the possible last years of my life.” Adding to the weight of the decision was knowing that double-lung transplants are not an absolute cure—only 80% of people survive through their first-year posttransplant, and the percentage goes down each following year. She writes in Transplanted, “I didn’t have full confidence that the transplant would even help. But when I started seeing how it changed other people’s lives, I started getting hopeful, dreaming of all the things I would do once I got my lungs: hike, run, bike, travel, jump, walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded, swim.”²

After almost two years in Toronto, it felt like a miracle when she and Isaiah returned to Springhill. “I wanted so badly to be back in society visiting with my friends and family,” she says. A sense of normalcy returned to their lives, but only temporarily. Just when they were about to celebrate the one-year anniversary of her transplant with a family trip to Aruba, Allison got bad news—her hemoglobin levels were dropping, indicating the possibility of PTLD, a rare form of cancer that can follow transplants. A PET scan revealed cancer spots covering her lungs and kidneys. She was diagnosed with diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. She needed intense and immediate chemotherapy treatment. “I knew the complication could occur, but I was angry. I was supposed to be on a beach. And I had already gone through so much.”

After all she has endured, Allison now empathizes as her sister’s lung capacity declines close to where hers had been at the time of her transplant. With Amy’s deteriorating health, they can no longer hike long distances or ride horseback into the evening—beloved pastimes the two once shared. Instead, the sisters have found new ways to enjoy the serenity of the countryside that surrounds them. “I got us cameras,” Amy says. “So now, we go out at night and make our own adventures photographing the stars.” In the cool of night, they walk into the darkness together, camera and tripod in hand. The sky above reads like an open book, full of constellations corresponding to mythic tales and characters immortalized in starlight. As they carefully focus their lens on the dark expanse overhead, Allison and Amy maintain a gentle silence. Carefully they release the shutter and remain still, observing the passing of time. Twenty seconds go by before the shutter closes. As it does, they each let out a breath. It’s cold and the moisture from their combined exhalation hangs in the night air, suspended for a while before dissipating. They smile, knowing that nothing outside of the present moment is promised, and together they marvel at the beauty surrounding them.