Asthma Nostalgia

The nice thing about illness when you're young is you seldom remember specific details or feelings that surround you. Even the pain or physical hindrance is withdrawn into memory like some faraway phobia. You do remember specific visions within the memory but they lack detail, even though they're there. A late night at a hospital when I was young with my first bouts with Asthma serve as an excellent example. I remember a metal room cold and open, with countless wheezing drafts. The metal along the sink seeming endless, a living thing melted down and molding to everything. There was a bathroom also, it had one of those small florescent lights on the mirror. The small drop light almost shimmered and bowed to the endless metal.

The room was cold and sterile like any hospital room. I was sitting on one of those reclining beds that have that strap of paper across the center. There was something cold on my chest moving around hesitantly, a concentrated burn nonetheless. I remember the doctor being shallow and grave, almost like appearing anything other then morbid candidness, was below him.
"Have you been counting his breath's and keeping logs?" he asked my Father.
"Yeah, yeah of course I have," my Father replied.
I don't remember much after that. It coruscates down my mind to when a particular scent or sight into the time rift of memory.

I cannot forgot the shallow tone of the doctor. A monster in the gloom, some statue on the edge of fog looking more concrete then any wall or tower from some other-world fantasy.

I have had Asthma since I was a small child. It has waxed and waned in activity as I have gotten older. Currently I am affected by it, that dormant choking within my shell. My parents first noticed my asthma when I use to play basketball on Saturday mornings at the private school I attended. We would play basketball in teams as wee little ones from the age of eight or younger. The point of subjecting us to athletics on the hallowed Saturday morning I always found was somewhat sadistic. I assume their reasoning was for the school to produce some sort of NBA alumni that would bring fame to the school.

They weeded us out at a young age.

It would be after these games I would come home extremely exhausted and short of breath, even though the physical activity for a wee shaver like myself should not have take such a dire toll. Further examination by doctors found that I had asthma, very serious asthma. Extreme physical activity through sports would leave me exhausted and befuddled. It subsided through my early teens until I was fourteen.

My father and I had been cleaning the garage and came upon our bicycles covered in dust and webs. Naturally cleaning our bikes seemed a lovely alternative to garage cleaning, so we went to work on. Nothing stops my father more from one particular task then small miscellaneous that bear no relevance to the original goal. We took the bikes out for nice ride It was the spring and the paths were good for riding, so we took a ride to Long Lake. I could not climb any of the hills, keep a pace, more like a donkey without a carrot. I barely made it back, and I was again having to count my breaths and stuff my body with medication.

It subsided and memories established by sickness reigned in terms of how I re-imagined physical activity. I never really understood the illness because when Asthma occurred it did not appear any more hideous then breathing hard; it did not rob me of some hidden strength, it did not crawl into my veins like an unknown rot. It was only after any exertion did I feel like something was truly wrong with me, not some ghost of pain or hypochondria.

The last and final brush with Asthma occurred during football my senior of High School where out of precaution they gave me an inhaler since I had some trouble that fall during training camp. Asthma had been dormant for almost all of the High School until my senior year. Therefore when it began to occur in the fall again they gave me this inhaler I only used once. I remember specifically it tasted like orange air, and it instantly gave me this surge of strength. We were running some hideous conditioning drills back and forth on the green field. They were worthy endeavors, but exhausting. Luckily the inhaler gave me some extra music to run to. I was berserk, intense with anger, rage, power running forth into my veins. Then as soon as this blast of energy was there it was gone, the downpour breaking beneath the blue. I was nearly throwing up on the edge of the drill. It prompted a hardened football coach to ask if I was okay.

If I had been more intelligent of the time I would have said "I think the cure is worse then the illness."

Moving forth past the disjointed images and inarticulate memories some semblance of theme can be constructed through the maelstrom.

When you're young it allows you to pass through horrible medical issues in a haze, since every memory is original you dwell on physical and setting details, not the emotional pain. That may come later, the tail end of the dream. This is profound to me. our young reality has generated a method of solace for those who are sick when they are young. Maybe that is why there is so much wonder at the child patients resilience through cancer. The resilience of the young is a seamless and endless wonder..