22,000 times a day

(All I need is the air that I breathe...)

All I NEED IS THE AIR THAT I BREATHE…

First of all, big apology all around to my friends and subscribers for my absence as of late. 

The main reason you haven’t heard from me is that I thought I was going to die. 

So let’s get into that, shall we?

One hot July morning in the summer of my 7^th year I got up, slipped on my bathing suit, hopped on my bike and pedaled the mile or so to Acorn Lane Pool, one of the many crystal blue, Olympic-sized public pools Levittown, N.Y. had to offer. I slipped off my flip-flops and jumped off the concrete walk and right into the 3’6” section. The trouble there was I was not quite 3’6” tall yet and commenced to drown.  In over my head, and not yet able to swim, the only way I could breathe was to push up off the bottom of the pool, get a gasp of air, and sink back down again.  And every time I popped up I could see the lifeguard sitting in her tall chair not six feet from me, her long tan legs dangling, her nose whitened with zinc oxide. I waved my arms, well, more like flailed my arms and tried to yell. But I could not make sound because there was not enough air in my lungs to push out any words, like “Hey Lady, I’m fucking drowning here!” 

She did not seem interested in me at all, but more concerned with blowing her whistle and threatening to kick out a bunch of bigger kids doing cannonballs and can-openers off the high dive. I managed to bounce and wheeze my way to within a foot of the edge of the pool, but just could not quite get there. And as it became harder and harder for me to reach the surface for air, I thought, “Well, this is it. I’m going to die today. Mom is gonna’ be pissed.” And it was petrifying. And it was REAL.  Oxygen, that thing we take for granted, in and out about 22,000 times every day had abandoned me. 

And then, out of nowhere, a big hand grabbed my upper arm and in one swift pull hefted me out of the water and plopped me on my butt on the concrete. I looked up to see the hairiest man I’d ever seen, balding and a bit pot-bellied. But he looked like Superman to me. “You okay, kid?” he said. And I could only nod “yes” because I still couldn’t talk. Then he turned to the lifeguard and said, “Yo, Missy, if you weren’t such a bitch of a Nazi with that goddamn whistle you mighta’ noticed this dumb kid was drowning here.” 

A few years later, playing Red Devil football, every once in a while you would “get the wind knocked out of you.” This usually happened when you got upended and landed flat on your back and PHOOMPH! All the air leaves your lungs at once and you can’t suck it back in. And I’d lay there, again incapable of saying anything, eyes wide waiting, begging for someone to notice me, as the refs stepped over me to pick up the ball. It was an eternity without that air.

And I’d lie there thinking, “Well this is it. I am going to die today. I do so hope we win.”

And, every time, eventually, Coach Tintle or Perpall or Dybus would rush over, bend over me and grab me by the front of my pants and pull me gently up and down off the turf, saying “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re gonna’ be all right.”  And I would be.

But I will never forget that panic and sense of helplessness. And that, believe it or not, brings us to a few weeks ago when, again, I just knew I was going to die.

I must say first that I have been no stranger in my life to injuries.  I sport over 200 stitches in various places, have broken collarbones and vertebrae and humerus’ and shoulders and fingers and toes and teeth and noses. There are a few wires holding parts of me together. But, other than that, have never had any really serious health issues. Y’know? The killing kind?  I’ve dented my fenders but never blown my engine.  But over the past few years I have developed some kind of allergy that, at first just pesky, is trying to kill me.

What is happening is this (and there is just no way to put it delicately)—I have been drowning in my own mucous. I am a snot machine.  My sinuses are clogging my airwaves to the point of choking me.  I could not sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time before waking up in the exact same state of breathlessness and panic of the pool and the football field, hacking away for what seems like forever until I can clear my passages. 

No sleep.

No air.

No color.

No appetite.

No me.

Weeks of this.

I will not get into the particulars of this allergy because frankly, there are none—because this allergy has yet to be identified and restrained.  Four doctors, an E.N.T. specialist, and even a really crappy and invasive surgery, a complete Roto-Rootering of my skull, tried to fix this and have failed. But I muddled by in this state of dysfunction until a few days ago when I realized I could not walk ten feet without having to stop for a rest and replenish my air supply.  I tried to get to the doctor but it was too late in the day. I tried urgent care and they were useless.

There was no hairy man or coach to pull me out of this. And just before a trip to the emergency room, where I was sure I would be put on a respirator and the Fat Lady would yodel me a fond fare-thee-well,  Gaille said, “I got an idea.”

Aside from being a syndicated columnist and an all around pretty cool broad, Gaille worked at an asthma/allergy center in Philadelphia for many years, not as a doctor or nurse but as an administrator.  But she had learned a few things through experience or osmosis of some kind. She went to the drug store and came back with a bag full of over the counter medicines and all things nasal spray, some distilled water and a plan.  She put me on a coordinated regimen of take this, spray this, inhale this, sleep now, eat something, take a schvitch, don’t overdo it and damn if is hasn’t worked!

This regimen began Friday night and by Saturday a.m. the vice-grip on my air began to loosen. Sunday even more so. Monday I could breathe as freely as I could before the allergy began, and today I feel well enough to talk about it. I feel great! And when I do go see my doctor I’m bringing Gaille and she can tell him everything she’s done to ease my pain (because frankly I understand little of it).  And if he gives me the “patients should not treat themselves” spiel I’m gonna tell him to shove it.

So there is.  I’m not pity fishing here, because I think there’s a lesson in all this—that sometimes the folks who are supposed to save you can’t or don’t.  The lifeguard didn’t save me. The refs never save me, the doctors never saved me. Gaille did. At least for now.  I never did thank my Hairy Superman or Coach Tintle, Dybus or Perpall, and I regret that. But I can thank Gaille…

All I need is the air that I breathe and to thank you.

Until next time, take a deep breath and about 21,999 more. I’ll be back in a few days with a story that’s a bit more engaging.  Yep—we’re gonna talk ducks and chickens, ‘cause dammit—that’s just fun!