Anger. Frustration. Exhaustion.
These are the primary emotions and sensations I feel when I can’t breathe.
When I get an asthma attack, my whole body is forced into a state of oppression.
I internally suffocate, leaving me more fatigued and out of breath afterward than when it first happened. Even with the inhaler that I use to control it, I am burdened with the heavy load of tiredness and tightness in my chest and neck.
Like a fish outside of its tank, I have to gasp for air, desperately needing to get toward more oxygen as quickly as possible.
If I don’t address it right away, I experience pain, discomfort and a sense of dread, paired with a headache and pressure around my eyes and head.
Sitting in a classroom full of people who have no idea what I’m going through when I’m enduring an attack gives me the all-too-familiar ache of loneliness and sadness.
They simply cannot feel or even experience the frightening episodes of this debilitating respiratory disease, which makes it hard for them to understand just how challenging it is to work and concentrate in class.
However, I have realized over time that I am not alone in fighting this chronically discomforting health condition.
According to the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, in the U.S. alone, around 28 million individuals have been diagnosed with asthma, equaling about one in 12 people.
My journey in battling this chronic, incurable disease has been an unexpected and long one.
As a child, I never understood what the word “asthma” meant.
I heard my parents use it many times, even at doctor’s appointments. All I could ever remember was a blue, L-shaped object with an orange cap that was given to me at our small clinic.
It wasn’t until my second wave of asthma hit me again at age 19.
My mother revealed to me the entire story behind my usage of those odd-looking things and their sneaky, colorful appearance.
When I was 8 months old, my mother was washing me in the bathtub when, out of the blue, she noticed that I was turning purple.
In a panic, she called my father and my sisters to check on me and they rushed me to one of the local hospitals in the area. When we arrived, the doctor on staff diagnosed me with childhood asthma.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to carry my inhaler with me, although I do not recall my asthma being too severe. By the time I reached middle school, I didn’t need it anymore. From that point on, I was living a life free of difficulty breathing.
That was only the beginning.
A conception of a more terrifying nightmare that, up to now, has changed my life forever, and will forever stay with me, haunting me every single day that I live and breathe, breathing the breath of life that every healthy human being takes for granted.
It’s coming back. It’s coming for me. Resurrected back from the precious, dark chambers of my beautiful lungs that have stored all the trauma they’ve endured since I was very young and seeking to strangle and cut off from me the wonderful life I’ve lived, free of rules.
In 2020, a few months into the pandemic, my mother and I were in the state of Washington visiting my sister and her family since I was taking online classes.
On the plane back to Los Angeles, we were required to wear masks; however, since they gave us food and beverages, we could take them off to eat and drink, although we had to put them back on immediately after eating and drinking.
We were nervous about taking off our masks, but despite our fears, we decided to do so.
When we arrived back home, I was tired and sick. It was not a flu kind of feeling, with a sore throat, coughing and congestion. It was more consistent with body aches, headache, fatigue and a loss of appetite for food or water.
I had COVID.
Slowly but gradually, I recovered and my life went back to normal, or so I thought.
Several months later, I was at home one evening, doing chores and working around the house. I felt unusually tired, almost as if I didn’t get enough sleep and I decided to head to my room to rest. It was heavy, like sleepiness and whatever it was, didn’t go away, even when I lay down.
Within a few days, my mom noticed that I seemed out of breath lately and that I wasn’t doing OK.
She suggested I go to the doctor to be checked out, although I was hesitant to do so. I believed that sooner or later, these symptoms would go away.
They didn’t.
At that point, I finally surrendered to her advice and went to get a physical done.
After I described my symptoms to my doctor, she explained to me that COVID could have retriggered my asthma, which had been tucked away for so many years, and that I would need to use a rescue inhaler for it. I was neither surprised nor shocked because I didn’t understand just how serious this condition was at the time.
Five years since that doctor’s visit, my asthma is worsening, little by little. With every workout, every change in the weather and even the dust and pollen from outside, something always triggers my asthma.
It is difficult to breathe, hard to focus on schoolwork and time-consuming to do even the simplest of tasks, such as washing dishes or doing chores.
Despite all of these challenges I’ve faced in my life regarding this horrific condition, I’ve been able to obtain a sense of peace and remain strong in who I am, with a strong support system of family, friends and those at my church.
Of course, it hasn’t been easy, being able to navigate the everyday hurdles of not being able to breathe and having to be careful with regard to my physical movement and what is in my environment that can trigger the asthma.
There are days when I feel that I can’t take any more.
I feel so exhausted, so powerless and hopeless, almost as if my power had been taken away from me to do basic things that every other human being can do with a snap of their fingers.
Why me?
I find myself asking this question when the asthma drains the life and energy out of me and I can’t do anything else but rest and recover.
It makes me hate my position in the world – but that main thought, as dark as it sounds – is the one thing that made me realize there is still a reason, and a purpose, to live.
My mother always tells me that no matter what we suffer in “este vida” (this life), that we’re stronger than what we deal with and allowed me to see that even though this thing has plagued my life with so many complications, that it shouldn’t stop me from being happy and living my life to the fullest.
My faith and my deep roots in the church have told me to hold on to God, that our purpose is to serve Him, no matter what our trials and tribulations are.
And, as far as I’m concerned, that is the truth, and in being faithful, as Peter walked on the water to see Jesus, I have done the same – and God has blessed me with the peace and joy I need, the strength to wake up and see another beautiful day.
The struggles are still there, waiting to pull me down.
I still get that rush of anxiety and mental heaviness that comes with this kind of internal asphyxia.
But despite all that, I still have prevailed with the faith I have in God and my positive mindset, knowing that God will help me no matter what I go through, and am making the most to cope with this incurable sickness.
As long as I remain aware of what causes my asthma to flare up and when it starts, I am able to better control and tame the powerful force that had left my poor body limp and breathless as a life-sized plastic living room doll.
