To breathe or not to breathe...

Is that even a question?

It started late last night. Woke me up from an already fitful sleep. My throat closing up, breath-- what little I could get-- wheezing in, panic rising. Even after all of these years, I still have that moment of panic. Is this my last breath? Can I even get my last breath? My hand, flinging out to my bedside table, feeling for my inhaler. The rest is automatic. Shaking the inhaler, exhaling (when I so desperately want to inhale), triggering off two shots, trying to slowly inhale them so I don't choke and wake everyone up. And I'm still shaken after my asthma attack, yes, even after all of these years. I lay back, trembling, clinging to my inhaler, trying to take slow, even breaths, and I know I won't sleep anymore. Not that night. I'm like a child still-- after all of these years-- waiting for the sunrise to wrap me up in its warmth, like a security blanket. Only when the sun is up do I feel safe enough to sleep.

It's been with me the whole day. The faint wheezing. My allergies are so awful, nothing is working. I should go to the doctor. I have no time to go to the doctor. The faint, niggling fear that I might just stop breathing.

I'm not afraid of death. I'm afraid of dying. The suffering. The realization that I am, indeed, dying.

When my asthma acts up like this, it feels like that. I'm dying.

I feel cheated. I work so hard at being healthy. I gave up smoking nearly 7 months ago, I eat lots of veggies, I cut way back on sugar and processed foods. I'm being a fucking saint here. And what do I get for it? The worst asthma attack I've had in years. Out-of-control allergies. The occasional nose bleed.

Just my luck, eh?