Wheezy memeories

I’ve had a bit of a cold the  last few days. And that had me thinking about how unwell I had been when I was a kid. Fortunately my asthma is nowhere near as bad as it used to be when I was small. This is something I wrote quite a while ago.

THE  PUMP

I’m six years old:

I take another noisy breath and give in. My sister and the others run and shout around me, but I have to stop. It’s not fair! I sit on the backdoor step.

“Here” Mum says, “This’ll help”

The regular rasping of the pump accompanies my wheezing and I breathe in its wet tongue tingling spray.

“Soon be better,” she says, rhythmically squeezing the pump’s black rubber bulb, directing its spray into my mouth.

A narrow rubber hose connects the egg shaped bulb to a fragile brown glass tube that’s curved over at the top. It’s not much bigger than mums little finger. Standing inside it are two short miniature tubes, one bending to almost touch the top of the other.

Mum’s poured s little bit of aspaxadrirne into the glass tube. Squeezing the bulb over and over pumps air through the tube turning  the liquid to a wet mist for me to breathe in. Very slowly my whistling breath quietens; I take bigger and bigger breaths. The pump has worked its magic again.

I’m eight.

I hate it.

It’s nighttime.

There’s an elephant on my chest.

I can’t breathe.

Hunch shoulders.

Cough, wheeze.

Blankets too heavy.

Pillows all wrong.

Pump doesn’t help.

Doctor’s here.

Sharp prickle in my arm.

My heart beats hard and fast.

Soft voices around me.

Doctor leaves.

I’ve got the shakes

I’m twelve:

The little pump that I take to school is gone. I’m glad to be rid of its raspy noise. I’ve got a blue inhaler. It’s wonderful, just one squeeze and instantly I can breathe again.

It’s freedom!