(I wrote this for my husband's blog after our visit to a new church Sunday.)
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This is what an asthma attack feels like.
First, you get a tickle in the back of your throat, way down in your chest. It's annoying, and makes you cough.
But when you cough, it feels different. Like the air's going out, but then not coming back in again. So you breath deeper, which moves the tickle deeper in your chest and makes you cough several more times.
At this point, you realize what's happening and your chest starts to feel tight. Like you're being squeezed in a giant fist and everytime you take a breath in, you can hear it, like a wind tunnel or a storm.
You start to feel a bit dizzy, light headed and need to lean on a wall or a friend for balance. Then, if you're still standing, your arms start to feel weak and your legs get shaky because there's not enough oxygen getting that far.
And every bit of focus you've got goes into breathing. Just trying to get enough air into your lungs.
So you dig out the puffer. The 'rescue medication'. You shake it well, like the directions say, then empty your barely functioning lungs, put the puffer to your lips and, with your oxygen deprived mental faculties, try to squirt and inhale at the same time.
Then, to add insult to injury, you have to hold your breath so the medication stays in your lungs for a few seconds. Then, in 5 minutes, you do it again.
It takes about half an hour for the medication to do much good. At which point, you can at least stand up again.
I didn't have asthma as a child. Like many, I developed it as an adult. Keeping it under control means taking meds everyday, as well as identifying and avoiding triggers. Which for me, includes perfume.
Your perfume.
That stuff you bathed in yesterday before you left the house for church.
I smelled it as soon as I walked in the lobby and my first response was a knot in my stomach. Oh, crap. What do I do? Do I sit in the parking lot while my family worships? Do I insist we all leave? Run down the road to a pharmacy and buy a face mask?
Being a stoic, I decided to soldier through. I thought, How bad can it be? Stupid question.
Did you notice me shaking my inhaler and taking a dose? Did you find it distracting?
I was sitting near you unable to breathe. And it's your fault.
I spent the rest of the service just waiting for the moment when I could stagger across the parking lot to my car. And it's your fault.
I couldn't listen to the sermon, couldn't sing, couldn't enjoy the solo. And it's your fault.
I couldn't stay afterwards to talk to people in the lobby. And it's your fault.
I went home and spent the next hour in bed. I'll need 2 or 3 days to fully recover. And it's your fault.
I will never ever again visit your church. And it's your fault.
Don't bother to tell me that you have the right to wear perfume, that much perfume, to church because I don't care.
I just want to breathe.
__________________________________________________
This is what an asthma attack feels like.
First, you get a tickle in the back of your throat, way down in your chest. It's annoying, and makes you cough.
But when you cough, it feels different. Like the air's going out, but then not coming back in again. So you breath deeper, which moves the tickle deeper in your chest and makes you cough several more times.
At this point, you realize what's happening and your chest starts to feel tight. Like you're being squeezed in a giant fist and everytime you take a breath in, you can hear it, like a wind tunnel or a storm.
You start to feel a bit dizzy, light headed and need to lean on a wall or a friend for balance. Then, if you're still standing, your arms start to feel weak and your legs get shaky because there's not enough oxygen getting that far.
And every bit of focus you've got goes into breathing. Just trying to get enough air into your lungs.
So you dig out the puffer. The 'rescue medication'. You shake it well, like the directions say, then empty your barely functioning lungs, put the puffer to your lips and, with your oxygen deprived mental faculties, try to squirt and inhale at the same time.
Then, to add insult to injury, you have to hold your breath so the medication stays in your lungs for a few seconds. Then, in 5 minutes, you do it again.
It takes about half an hour for the medication to do much good. At which point, you can at least stand up again.
I didn't have asthma as a child. Like many, I developed it as an adult. Keeping it under control means taking meds everyday, as well as identifying and avoiding triggers. Which for me, includes perfume.
Your perfume.
That stuff you bathed in yesterday before you left the house for church.
I smelled it as soon as I walked in the lobby and my first response was a knot in my stomach. Oh, crap. What do I do? Do I sit in the parking lot while my family worships? Do I insist we all leave? Run down the road to a pharmacy and buy a face mask?
Being a stoic, I decided to soldier through. I thought, How bad can it be? Stupid question.
Did you notice me shaking my inhaler and taking a dose? Did you find it distracting?
I was sitting near you unable to breathe. And it's your fault.
I spent the rest of the service just waiting for the moment when I could stagger across the parking lot to my car. And it's your fault.
I couldn't listen to the sermon, couldn't sing, couldn't enjoy the solo. And it's your fault.
I couldn't stay afterwards to talk to people in the lobby. And it's your fault.
I went home and spent the next hour in bed. I'll need 2 or 3 days to fully recover. And it's your fault.
I will never ever again visit your church. And it's your fault.
Don't bother to tell me that you have the right to wear perfume, that much perfume, to church because I don't care.
I just want to breathe.
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