On a stormy morning in 1984, I was reborn as a labored breather in the eye of Hurricane Gloria. The name of the storm was as benign as the countless old ladies who shared its namesake. Maybe only Hurricane Gladys would have struck less fear in the hearts of New Yorkers unaccustomed to such storms.
As the Cape Verde winds bore down on the 5 boroughs, my brother and I awoke with a sense of excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning. With nature playing Santa and hurling a gift right at our new storm windows, my brother and I watched with anticipation. Except my excitement quickly morphed into terror as I found myself gasping for air.
My parents agreed that I was a bit too young to try and wait this sudden malady out, so my father got ready to take me to the hospital. Getting ready meant shaving, and each stroke at his stubble with his disposable razor seemed like an eternity.
Compounding matters, my older brother was significantly more concerned with the fate of my uneaten pancakes. His persistent badgering was causing me even more anxiety, so I laid my head gently on his shoulder and sank my teeth into his arm. His scream spurred my father into action as he scooped me up and dashed out the door.
At the hospital, I was given a very large shot of epinephrine, which provided one of the most ecstatic feelings I've ever experienced. I could breathe again.
Three weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. Almost immediately after leaving, I was sent to an allergist for evaluation. An allergy panel revealed allergies ranging from cats to mold. To ease the asthma symptoms, I was prescribed Marax cough syrup, a vile concoction that tasted like old Nyquil.
As my asthma attacks increased, so did my Marax intake. My mother refused me an inhaler because she'd read that they encouraged "dependency"; instead, I spent many nights laying awake for hours, unable to get back to sleep. During those many sleepless hours, my mind would wander to thoughts of self worthlessness. I could not comprehend the fairness of not being able to sleep while the rest of my family slumbered soundly. To me, it meant I had been plucked from the universal norms and seated in a corner of the cosmos reserved for those underserving of peace.
As it turns out, Marax was a cough medicine based in ephedra, the precursor to methamphetamine. Hardly the ideal medication for a grade schooler--which the FDA recognized when they eventually banned Marax.
When I finally got an inhaler, I think my mother saw it as an act of rebellion against her sense of superior judgement.
I just wanted to breathe.
I did. And I haven't stopped since. The nighttime pontifications on my place in the universe continue, though. Sometimes, I still feel like an anomaly in the grand patchwork of existence. It comes and goes. But it's there.
It's too bad there isn't a portable medical dispenser that can rescue you from those moments.
Agreed
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