breathing would be nice

I can’t breathe.

No, really.

Well, I guess I am exaggerating (who me?) because typing a post is a task that requires oxygen to the brain (though some would say that my posts make a good argument otherwise). (Perhaps poor oxygenation leads to excessive use of parentheses?)

I have severe and chronic asthma. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. The first really severe attack I can remember happened in Tulsa, Oklahoma while we were waiting for my great-grandmother to die of cancer. My cousins and I were staying at my great-aunt’s house and my mother and her cousin were staying somewhere else. My mother forgot she had my inhaler in her purse when she left for the night. That was back in the day before cell phones so no one was able to call her when I got sick.

I remember my Aunt Mary and Uncle Tuffy wringing their hands in worry as I lay gasping in the bed. At some point, someone carried me upstairs to lie in a cousin’s bed. I don’t remember because my oxygenation was so poor that I was in and out of consciousness. All I remember is the futility of working so hard to try to get a lungful of air but being completely powerless. No matter how I gasped, I couldn’t get enough oxygen.

Not too long after that trip to Oklahoma, I suffered an even worse attack that landed me in the hospital. I spent one whole day at the doctor’s office where they gave me breathing treatments one after another until I was shaking like a leaf and nauseous. They gave me shots of adrenaline that made no difference whatsoever. I was finally admitted to the hospital to be placed on a theophylline drip but my veins were practically sucked together from hypoxia and it took what seemed like a million sticks before my IV was established. My memory of that week long hospital stay is spotty because of my extremely poor respiratory status. What I remember is screaming in pain every time an IV catheter was tunneled under my skin. What my mother remembers is that I was blue and had not the oxygen to scream. I was only screaming in my head.

All throughout my school years, I carried a small suitcase full of medications. Several of my pills and inhalers had to be taken four times daily and the schools were not so strict about medications back then. Plus, I had to use my rescue inhalers so very often that much of my day would have been spent going to and from the nurse’s office if I hadn’t been able to carry the meds with me. I don’t think there is an asthma medication that I haven’t taken. I was on long-term prednisone therapy for a while and suffered all of the side-effects, weight gain and moon face included.

I was, some might say, frail.

Now, thanks to the miracle of Singulair, I haven’t been hospitalized in many years. I take two maintenance inhalers daily and I usually have to take my rescue inhaler at night before I go to sleep. I take it when I wake up in the morning 2-3 times a week. It may sound like my asthma is poorly controlled but I assure you that it is so much better than it ever used to be.

But we went to Wichita Falls, Texas this past weekend and hiked along some nature trails and I guess that was the absolute worst thing I could’ve done because I have had trouble breathing ever since. I’ve been sucking on my inhaler and taking Benadryl for three days and yet I still can’t breathe. It feels like there is an elastic band across my chest preventing me from expanding my chest and getting a deep breath. It is uncomfortable but I also feel very tired and weak from working so hard to breathe all the time.

The worst part about suffering from asthma is the fear and the feeling of powerlessness. It’s scary to have difficulty drawing a breath. It’s terrifying to know that I am doing everything I am supposed to do and I still can’t breathe. It makes me feel like a little girl again.

Not to worry. I have a prescription bottle of prednisone and I took a tablet before typing this post. I’ll be puffy and slightly psychotic by week’s end but, by golly, I’ll be breathing.

But it really is disconcerting.