I am reminded annually how lucky I am to be alive, because every year I have a severe asthma attack.
I'm not the type of asthmatic that needs my inhaler every day. I don't even need it on a monthly basis. Rather, I'm the kind of asthmatic that needs my inhaler, sometimes two inhalers, whenever I get sick. If I get the flu, if I even get the community cold, I can be pretty sure that it will get into my lungs and become bronchial asthma.
Fortunately, for me, I usually only get sick two times a year.
Having an asthma attack is one of the scariest experiences in the world. Only being able to take shallow breaths in and out while trying to minimize panic is unlike anything else I know. During an attack, I always think about how wonderful my husband Derek is. I think about our weekly trips to the grocery store and how, no matter how mundane, we can have the best time walking up and down the aisles. I also think about my family and friends, and how much I love them.
And the one constant thought in my head is, "I don't want to die." Because when you have a really bad asthma attack, you really think you might die.
When I was a kid, I had asthma so bad that I would have to be rushed to the emergency room at Kapiolani Medical Center. Once there, I sometimes had to be hooked up to an intravenous treatment, to ensure that I would get the correct nourishment.
I would only have to stay in the hospital for two days, but it was often on Christmas Eve. (Somehow I always spent Christmas vacation sick. I even caught the chicken pox just in time for the break - the highlight of 7th grade.)
Don't feel bad for me - feel bad for the hospital staff. Once I figured out how to walk around with an I.V., I did just that, yakking to whoever would listen. The nurses were so patient. They listened to my little kid chatter and laughed at corny jokes. They even helped mend my broken mechanical toy dog.
To this day, I love nurses.
As I got older, my asthma became more manageable. I didn't need to stay overnight at the hospital, because treatments improved as did my level of responsibility. I knew enough to keep myself hydrated and to have my inhaler available. Yet, every year, I would have that horrible attack that would ground me for at least a couple of days.
This year, however, I thought I was going to be lucky. I thought maybe I had finally outgrown the disease that had been with me since I was 3. Perhaps I finally learned to control it, the way fellow asthmatic Pittsburgh Steeler Jerome Bettis did when he partnered with the American Lung Association (www.lungusa.org).
So Derek and I planned a weekend trip to Anaheim two weeks after law school finals. We got the best deal on Priceline for the Hyatt hotel near Disneyland. We planned to hang around the area and perhaps take a couple of trips into Los Angeles.
Five minutes after we left our home in San Diego, Derek turned to me and asked whether I packed my asthma medication. For a brief second, I thought about asking him to turn the car around so we could get it, but then I laughed off the idea. I wasn't sick so I wouldn't be getting asthma, I assured him.
As Friday wore on, I magically developed a sore throat and a slight headache. We picked up some over-the-counter decongestant and throat lozenges. Everything was going to be A-OK.
But on Saturday, I was worse, but that didn't stop me from insisting we trek around Los Angeles.
When we returned to the hotel that afternoon, I felt like I was going to collapse. Derek, who thought it was just a bad cold, suggested we stay in for dinner. I agreed and canceled dinner reservations at the swanky restaurant I had been dreaming about for weeks. Instead I had chicken soup with matzoh balls.
After I got ready for bed, Derek recognized the familiar signs of an oncoming attack. He asked if I wanted him to pack up.
"Pack up?! No way. We're not checking out before the night's over! This is the best hotel room!" I cried. I can be stubborn when it comes to denial and illness. "I'm fine! I love this place!"
He relented, but then it became obvious that there would be no rest for me that night. I began coughing and fussing about how the room felt like Finland in December. "I'm packing up," he said firmly. I nodded weakly.
We had to go home early. I needed my inhaler.
As we drove back to San Diego, I don't think I have ever valued Derek as much as I did that night. He never once complained about how inconvenient it was for us to check out early or how terrible the weekend trip turned out to be.
For me, asthma is a curse as well as a blessing.
True, I hate wondering whether I will be able to catch my breath. But I also understand that the very same pain and discomfort also forces me to appreciate all the people and things I take for granted. You could even say it makes Thanksgiving more than just a once-a-year event.
But in the meantime, just to be on the safe side, I'll never leave my inhaler behind again.
Illustration by Jon J Murakami
