The wonderful thing about asthma is the fact that you never know which attack may be your last. Even if you have mild asthma like I do, and use meds only infrequently, at the back of your mind is that tiny voice saying, "What if today is the day nothing works, maybe today you'll gasp your last."
I suppose in an existential sense, this close relation to one's own death is desirable, but on the other hand, it tends to cultivate a very nonchalant attitude towards one's own demise. I mean the past 2 days have made me much more aware and grateful for the day to day functionality that I take for granted. Things as simple as getting up out of bed, or stripping for the shower take on new significance when you have to slow your movements, wince at the pain in your joints and breathe slowly and regularly to avoid hyperventilation.
The really odd thing is that I have had countless asthma attacks, and each time I say that I will appreciate more the simple things I can do without wincing at the pain in my chest: walking down the street, running for a bus, climbing up a flight of stairs. The feeling of gratitude lasts for just a couple of days and then it is back to the ho-hum, that lazy un-selfconscious bitchery that becomes so ridiculous when you are fighting for breath at 2 am, sitting up in bed because you cannot breathe any other way, fighting for every precious sip of air, always face to face, dancing with the Jak o' Shadows
There have only been a couple of times that I have thought an attack would kill me, the last and most severe was at boarding school in Kagumo. It was 1998 and I was in Form Four, bunking with our house captain and my very good randy friend Kanyanjua (he was a daddy at 17 :-p). For some reason asthma likes to strike between 2 and 4 am, just when your body is at its laziest, and probablywhen your body's defenses are at their lowest functionality (which is bizarre if you think about it because asthma is a hyperimmune response!)
So there I was, stuck with my ineffectual inhaler, waiting for the pill I had hastily dry swallowed to kick in, and I looked out the window from my bed, and watched the moonlight play in the jacarandas outside and what was running through my head then was what a mess I was going to leave for Kanyanjua if I died in bed that night. At that point I was past caring, all I wanted was death or for my meds to kick in, anything to make it stop! At this point Kanyanjua startled me out of my reverie, he'd been woken by my wheezing. I reassured him that everything was in hand, and reluctantly he fell back to sleep, obviously suspicious that all was not well... The meds eventually kicked in and I made it through that night though I was weak and trembly for a week afterwards, those attacks take a lot out of you.
In a way I like the state of mind that I fall into when I'm going through an attack; the slightly fuzzy, warm and yet razor sharp consciousness that comes with all the different medications surging through your bloodstream. I imagine that's what the moment of death is like: clarity without attachment, peace and warmth and cogent thoughts.
So what was my point? Oh yeah, take a moment to appreciate all the things you take for granted, you never know when they might be taken away from you.
posted by WM @ 17:23
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