Getting chosen last in gym class was my greatest humiliation, but it was by no means my biggest problem
We stood in a queue of two, awaiting rejection. It was easier, I thought, when you expected it. Mickey Noss and Claude Penke were choosing sides for kickball. Mickey rubbed his hand over his orange brush cut. Even his freckles were frowning. Beside me stood Lisbet Don’t Call Me Elizabeth! Biable. Lisbet peered at Mickey through thick, root beer-colored frames. Claude and Mickey whispered. Large ceiling fans twirling overhead seemed, with their rhythmic hum, to intone: “Let’s-dispense-with-non-athletic-riff-raff.” Spring had arrived at Big Blessed Sacrament, and once again Lisbet and I were left standing — alone — during the choosing of sides. That we saw ourselves in a desperate competition To Not Be Chosen Last spoke for itself. We both were victims of nature and misdirected pedagogy. But to us, in that time and in that place, the bottom line was an old-fashioned sense of shame. Lisbet and I had asthma. Whenever we tried to run, we thought we were dying. Dr. Loper, our country physician, seemed not to know much about the problem, which, to my mind, was my heart condition. When I died, I reasoned, Dr. Loper would figure it out, perhaps during the autopsy. I pictured several solemn-looking men standing around a sterile table, grimly shaking their heads: “Heart attack.” “How old was she?” “Ten.” Because of my sacrifice, some other child with the same heart defect would be properly diagnosed and spared my agony and untimely death. With a look of disgust, Mickey jerked his thumb in my direction and walked toward the gymnasium doors. As I skipped along behind him, my euphoria took pause. If I failed to deliver, I’d be in Lisbet’s shoes come Thursday, when next we met for healthful athletic aggravation, i.e., gym class.
And that’s what beat all. The sporting life wasn’t at all like, say, history. History could be studied, pondered, mastered. Its stores of knowledge could be built upon, like … well, a fledgling civilization. You could count on history: The last 100 years weren’t likely to change. Kickball, as a subject, was less navigable. You were only as good as your last kick. And after you kicked, you had to, well … run. Mickey had, of course, hedged his bets by putting me last in the batting order. The insult was not without its consolation: My fate had been postponed. All too soon, however, I found myself quaking on the painted yellow square that was home plate, awaiting the pitch. Lisbet squinted with relief across the asphalt, from the outfield. Doreen Schluck smirked behind the thin yellow rectangle denoting the pitcher’s mound. I gamely scuffed my black-and-gold tennis shoe on some pebbles. Doreen was not fooled. She sneered and rolled the ball, which gathered momentum and grew in size as it neared home plate. My eyes locked on the red rubber sphere. I discerned its texture. I drew back my foot. Whannnk! My ankle exploded. I hobbled toward first base. “Get her! Get her!” screamed Doreen. My calves ached. My chest felt encircled by great rubber bands. How I hated Doreen. Thwannnk! The rubber ball jarred my teeth when it hit my shoulder. “You’rrrrre outttttt!” Doreen gleefully screamed. Life was confusing. “Run and play!” the recess yard mothers always told Lisbet and me as we sat on the curb quietly talking. Run and play? Why, we wondered, would anyone mix pain with pleasure like that? By high school the asthma was much worse, and Dr. Loper still had no answers. Then one morning I awoke, and the world stood still. I inhaled. Nothing. I inhaled. Silence hugged me. White is the color of Silence, and Silence can be immense. Magnificent, even.
I don’t remember the trip to the doctor’s office. Nobody on Pibble Road had ever called an ambulance before, and we didn’t either; Dad simply drove me to the clinic. Halogen lights danced before my eyes. “Epinephrine or antihistamine?” asked Dr. Wurble, sitting in for Dr. Loper. Did I shrug? The shot hit my thigh, but I felt no pain. In-and-out. That was Wurble’s style. Next thing I knew, I was blinking in sunlight. My father gave a self-conscious cough when I slid blearily onto the station wagon’s long vinyl seat. For a man in a hurry, he seemed to be dawdling. He turned to me almost gently. “The shot didn’t help,” my father said. “They never do.” How did he know? “What I have to say is going to sound cruel,” he continued. “But I have to tell you anyway.” “You and I are not like most people,” my dad said. “We have asthma. And we have it worse, even, than most people who have it. People who don’t have asthma have no idea. Everything we do is harder. But nobody knows.”
“When I was about your age,” he said, looking at me pointedly, “what happened to you today happened to me. I knew I was sick because my father — who’d never gone to a doctor in his life — actually took me to one. I heard my mother say that she thought I was dying. I think I was. “The doctor gave me a shot. From then on, my father insisted that, if I tried hard enough, I could will away my asthma if I’d only fight harder. He thought he was helping me, I know, but he only made it worse. I tried and I tried. But no amount of willpower ever helped. “As I got older, I realized that I had a disease. I learned I couldn’t control my asthma and, in fact, if I wasn’t careful, it might kill me. “It took a while, but I finally learned that I could use my asthma as an excuse, or I could accept it. I could control certain areas of my life, but not the asthma itself. “If you use your asthma as an excuse, the only person who’ll lose will be you. You will have less of a life. Nobody else. Just you. “I love you,” he said, “I wish you didn’t have to have asthma. I wish I wasn’t the guy who gave it to you. But I don’t want you to have less of a life, either.”
And then he drove me to school. On the way, my dad explained that stress made his asthma worse; sometimes, certain foods seemed to do the same. I could and I should try to figure my way through “our” difficulty. But I could not beat asthma with sheer will, and he wanted me to know that it was all right if the asthma sometimes felt bigger than I was. When we arrived, he sat in our silver-green Ford Fairlane and watched me lurch unsteadily toward the auditorium. I felt his eyes follow me. I felt his sadness because he was my father and, yet, he could not help. Dad favored three truisms, and he repeated them every time something went wrong or when somebody failed or shirked their responsibilities: You’ve got to start somewhere; You’ll never know unless you try; and I can’t means I don’t want to. Sometimes I hated these trite sayings because they stopped my best arguments with my father right in their tracks. Sometimes I much preferred arguing to doing the endless household chores that he insisted were good for our character. But in the spring of my seventeenth year, it dawned on me that some problems in life — asthma, for one — simply could not be resolved with argument, by avoidance, or by feeling sorry for oneself. The essence of Dad’s oft-repeated lectures faintly rang true. I knew it was time to listen to words I didn’t really want to hear. Most of us don’t run willingly toward wisdom; doing so as a teenager felt paradoxical. But what choice did I have? Three days passed before I felt comfortable in my own skin again. The asthma attack had cast my soul a little bit beyond the body’s physical parameters. With the reintegration, I felt an extraordinary sense of purpose. I felt confusingly older. That summer, I embarked on an exercise program that — during the next decade — progressively strengthened my lungs and transformed my life, one step at a time. I discovered a joy in the simple act of breathing that I’d never known before. Life wasn’t any easier, but it definitely was sweeter. I was meant to live.
SIDEBAR 1
You Can Fight Asthma Asthma is a respiratory disease affecting the nose and mouth, windpipe (trachea), lungs, and airways that connect the nose and mouth to the lungs. During an asthma attack, the muscles around the airways tighten — or spasm — and the lining inside the airways swells or clogs.
Asthma leaves people more susceptible to colds, flu, and allergic complication. Dietary restrictions for managing asthma can be onerous, particularly while traveling and trying to bridge language and culture barriers. Some common triggers of asthma include: allergies, infections like colds or bronchitis, exercise, changes in the weather (from mild to cold), and smoke. Onset can be sudden, uncomfortable, and even lethal. Generally, the quicker the onset of an attack after exposure to a trigger, the more dangerous. If you have asthma, talk to your doctor about managing your disease with proper medication. Consult with your physician also about embarking on a fitness program. Diet and exercise can play significant roles in managing asthma.
Sidebar 2
Treating Asthma Most people with asthma take two kinds of medication. That’s because each asthma medication treats only one aspect of the condition. (However, newer products, like Advair, now combine both medications in one inhaler.) •Controllers, also called preventers, reduce inflammation in the airways. Controllers should be taken every day, whether a person is experiencing symptoms. •Relievers are very good at helping to alleviate symptoms immediately. However, reliever medications do not address underlying problems of bronchial inflammation.
To Learn More For more information on living with asthma, visit The American Academy of Allergy, Asthma, & Immunology, info@aaaai.org or call 800-822-2762.
