Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash
Asthma woke me up this morning. It slid into my dreams, an increasing pressure on my chest. Asthma creeps up on me, slowly cutting off my breathing over hours. I get tired before I realize I need my inhaler. Often, I feel headachey and lazy. My brain fogs. I just want to go back to sleep, and sometimes I do, only to wake up in a panic while gasping for air.
Not breathing hurts, and it's a very familiar feeling. It is what I'm most afraid of when I think of Coronavirus. The contagion is looming around me, ready to piggy back on my asthma and stop my breathing for good.
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One of my friends has Coronavirus right now. She lives alone, also has asthma and has been updating her Facebook feed as she's able to let us know she's surviving. She has a pulse oximeter she uses to make sure her oxygen level doesn't dip below 95%. If it does, she will go to the hospital.
Her experience is like the accident on the side of the road I can't stop looking at. Another Arab woman. Another writer. Another asthmatic. Also queer. It's like looking into a mirror reflecting the most nefarious what if. Will she make it through this? So far, it seems she will. But the world is a mess right now and it's never been more clear that nothing is guaranteed.
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I do not live alone. My partner is here, but has never dealt with anyone truly ill. I can't help but reflect on the number of life-threatening emergencies I've had in my life including one near death experience that included doctor error, hospital error and the failure to make it clear to me or my family that I was edging out of life.
My partner would do all the right things. She's no fool. The truth I'm trying to say here is I feel like a burden.
I am high risk. When I get sick, I get really sick. When I get hurt, I get really hurt. An example is the workplace injury I've been on disability for for almost four months. How did it happen? I stepped on an ice cube. I almost slipped. I didn't fall. And I tore the plantar fascia in my foot, causing swelling that pressed on a nerve under my ankle and damaged it as well. I still can't walk without pain. I have to take medication to sleep. And I'm told I have 6-8 more months of healing before I know if this is a permanent fixture of my life or whether I will be able to use my foot without pain again.
This is not to say that I want to commit myself to negative outcomes. No. In fact, what I've survived so far leads me to believe I am incredibly strong. But I still fear that awful, closeted feeling of not breathing. And I fear my partner having to witness it.
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My partner would tell me not to worry. We are isolated as much as we can be without going underground. In fact, maybe that's the fear I should have: the isolation. I guess it feels less real to me than impending suffocation.
Regardless, I am not sitting around worrying. This morning I was frightened. I gave myself some time to reflect on why. This writing is the result of that reflection. Having gotten all of this out of my head is the relief I needed.
That's what writing does for me. That is why, quite honestly, I'm back after a year's hiatus. I need to be writing. I need to connect with other's through my writing. I want to read others and connect with them through their writing.
How many of us are in the same quarantine boat? What a surreal time this is, where online is where we go to be in touch with the real world instead of where we go to escape from it.
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I teach blogging, expressive writing for traumatic release and recovery and host generative writing sessions at the Center for Creative Writing. Write with me!