Dynamite
A thin glass tube of red neon gas runs along my bra line at the base of my sternum, wraps around my back, and meets at my spine. One branch shoots up my cervical spine and anchors evil laser beams behind my eyes. The other travels down my lumbar spine where it spreads sharp-clawed fingers across both sides of my low back.
Why
I do not write this for empathy. I write, as Joan Didion said, to know what I think. To try to make sense of why my body does this to me. To see if I can translate the exquisitely discomfiting feeling into words. The experience has such a unique and immediately recognizable tinge, but I always feel that no matter how sympathetic so many are, it is something proprietarily mine. To remind myself that compared to the epic levels of suffering around the globe, my lungs’ sound and fury signifies nothing. But then I think of one of my mother’s many sage bits of advice: “You have what you have. Yes, there is always someone in worse shape, and it’s good to keep perspective, but you have the right to your feelings.”
I write to remember. When it finally fades, it fades fast, and I am awash in gratitude for amnesia. I suppose, like with childbirth, it’d be too difficult to evoke the specific pain too often. But I want to remember what it feels like so that I steep in appreciation for the days I don’t feel like that. And I write in solidarity with and for everyone else whose lungs solidify in this way, sending them into spasmodic panic at the denial of the breath of life.
TNT
Every cough unleashes a lightning bolt of energy through the channel, strong enough to double me over; to bring me to my knees. I try to thwart the urge because I know what’s to come, but resistance is both futile and counterproductive, as it forces the energy to build up. When the dam bursts, it damns my efforts with a vengeance. My lungs instinctively want to help me evacuate the custard that accumulates in my constricted alveoli. I simultaneously appreciate and resent my body. Even the most innocuous cold virus triggers what my GP calls an allergic reaction, resulting in asthmatic bronchitis. 100% of the time.
My debilitated lungs explode in coughing spasms in their attempt to expel the mayonnaise-y coating that prevents them from doing their job. The convulsions make me dry heave, bulge the veins at my temples, cascade flashes of light before my eyes, and send sharp shards of pain through my low back. They rub my throat raw, reducing my voice to a sexy-not-sexy rasp. My ribs take the brunt of the blunt force, and this time, that exertion cracked a front left one. I popped veins in my right eye so I unintentionally look Halloween-ready.
I Know…
“That can happen,” said Dr. Sarfraz, as he wrote a prescription for more prednisone. “There is not much you can do. Just rest. Diane, you know you should come in sooner.” He gives me a nebulizer to take home; I feel like a crack addict when I use it, sucking in the vapor that will bring sweet relief.
“I know. I know.” This has happened every time I get a cold since I buckled from the pain on my way to school at age 16. During that same episode, my mother thought I was being melodramatic as I grasped at a painting on the wall, hoping to break my fall as I passed out.
My body feels battle-weary. The low blood oxygen level (confirmed by Dr. Sarfraz’s oximeter) and exhaustion from the resistance to and the effort of coughing make me rigid, shaky, and lightheaded. My face fills with a taste and smell so specific that I can diagnose myself long before I reach the doctor’s office. I struggle to get out of bed. I feel nervous about my safety in the shower, whose steam brings some relief. I debate the merit of leaving the couch to prepare a soothing cup of tea with my friend Jane’s home-cultivated honey because the kitchen seems so far away, and I will have to drag along the sandbags attached to my ankles.
My place takes on the unmistakable sickroom persona: tissue boxes emerge for their star turns; makeshift receptacles sit at the side of both bed and sofa at the ready to accept the goopy detritus. I wear the most unattractive, least restrictive clothes I can find. A bed pillow comes down to the couch because it has become a de facto bed; the cough wracks me out of sleep so often that I make up for it as much as possible as crappy daytime TV drifts in and out of focus; it doesn’t matter - I can’t concentrate anyway. Pill bottles and nebulizer liquid vials cover the counters. The prednisone makes me jittery and hungry, but I crave only hot liquids and white carbs. Challah and matzoh ball soup. No yogurt or anything else that is even remotely phlegmy. My waistline expands when my lungs cannot.
Respire
The breath - that I tout in every yoga class I teach - so elusive now. I struggle on both inhale and exhale, the latter sounding like the snap, crackle, and pop of Rice Kripsies fame. I could no more do the “square breath” that I incorporate into so many classes (breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four) than I could birth a baby otter.
It’s no wonder I cowered in the face of COVID-19 (and this isn’t that; I’ve tested. And tested. And tested). I felt certain, especially in the early days, that it would kill me. During one of these episodes - when admittedly I feel vulnerable - I suspect this Achilles heel will eventually bring about my demise. My lungs are no match for the most mundane common cold. The coronamonster would have slayed them.
The breath - that we take so for granted. We breathe in and out about 22,000 times daily, drinking in the oxygen that keeps our systems running, and expelling waste via carbon dioxide. Most of us use only about 70% of our lung capacity. The pranayama breathing exercises I teach aim at increasing that to prevent atrophy and increase vitality. But all my years on the mat are no match for this boa that constricts my bronchial tubes and makes me struggle for each precious sip of air.
Friends and family bring tea and soup. Their liquid love and time will help. Slowly, stealthily, I will notice one day that I don’t notice my breath any more.