 I am obsessed with being unable to breathe. I have to hold my breath, barely allowing myself to suck in any air for fear that the tickle, which is not in my throat but somewhere deeper—in my bronchial tubes or lungs—will make me cough uncontrollably. And I fear that the hacking, croupy cough will burn every breathing mechanism in my body with such grave irritation that I will bleed, blow out a lung or stop breathing altogether. I am obsessed with the idea that, for me, normal breathing is no longer automatic.As a registered nurse on a medical/surgical floor at the George Washington University Hospital 30 years ago, I felt uncomfortable around patients who could not breathe. If a gasping patient sat in the hallway, sometimes I’d look away. Other times I’d offer a back rub, a murmur of encouragement, a readjustment of the patient’s oxygen mask—but I did these things with a clear understanding that their inability to get air, their extreme physical discomfort and their emotional desperation made me bite the insides of my mouth until they were raw, made me feel like throwing up, made me pray to God that I would never get what they had. Their diagnoses varied—chronic asthma, heart or lung disease, end stage cancer. But they all looked the same—propped up in high-backed chairs or so high in bed their bodies hunched forward. Their hands pressed oxygen masks hard into the skin of their faces to get more air. Their faces, necks, and gowns dripped with sweat and the condensation that formed inside the oxygen mask and then dripped out. And the look in their eyes, opened wide above their masks silently begged us to please do something. For several months, I have been obsessed with my own inability to breathe. A constant tickle somewhere between my throat and lungs—all consuming—never goes away. I take the tiniest breaths until I absolutely need more air, then I cough and cough, a croupy sound that chills me. Water fills my eyes and nose and I run for tissues, a drink of water, cough medicine, allergy medicine, anxiety medicine. But none of these helps. Finally, I go to the doctor who prescribes steroids that work like a miracle. Within a day or two, the coughing, wheezing, tickle, fear and desperation are shaved away until they are only in the background of my life. I can still feel maybe the tiniest tickle remaining, maybe I cough a few times in the night, but there is great relief. Still my mind remains obsessed. What if I get worse again? My doctor diagnoses a “slight case of pre-asthma” and orders an inhaler with steroids and albuterol and I learn to blow out all my air, place my lips to the hole in the inhaler, and suck all the medicine deeply into my lungs. I feel so good on this inhaler. I am obsessed with how normally it makes me breathe. I cannot stop looking forward to the next inhaler dose even though they only come every twelve hours. I realize that the true obsession is still about my ability to breathe. I know how badly I feel without the inhaler. I am terrified not to take it. I don’t want to lose my ability to breathe. I don’t want to die pressing an oxygen mask to my face. I don’t ever want to be drenched in sweat and the wide-eyed desperation to breathe. |
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CategoriesA Bookseller's LifeAbout Robyn Ringler Book Reviews Books Into Movies Community Book Events East Line Books Events Poetry Read This... REAL LIFE Tell Your Story The The Book of Lists The Business of Bookselling The Reagan Shooting |
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