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photo credit: jaroslavd

It was at the start of the ill times I had in ‘07. The cause was a complication of my condition that I won’t bore you with. The result was that I was having trouble breathing.

I remember waking up in bed, and struggling to breathe. And sitting up. I could feel my throat closing. I did the test I’d been taught at some point by a nurse - trying to swallow. Then I realized I couldn’t.

And I understood why allergic reactions and asthmatics are taught to go directly to the hospital.

If I didn’t figure out how to combat this feeling, I would die. Quickly.

When you can’t breathe, you can’t speak. That’s why the first step of the Heimlich maneuver is to ask the other person if they’re okay. If they nod, it’s safe to say they might not be. I usually keep responding until they say verbalize. My friends hate it, but the one time it saved someone’s life was reason enough to annoy the people I love.

I couldn’t breathe deeply enough to power a call for help. A friend was in the next room. If I can make enough breath to call out, I’ll survive, I remember thinking when things got hazy.

I shook my head to fight off the darkness. Did Not help the fact that I could barely breathe.

My life didn’t flash before my eyes when I almost blacked out. I wasn’t afraid.

I was seized with desperation. Not quite fear. I remember wanting desperately to be able to Fight.

This is the part where I recommend meditation to Everyone who has never tried it. Immediately, I went into some kind of meditative stance. Everything was clear. Time slowed down. My body went calm and it was instantly, but very slightly, easier to breathe than it had been when panic tensed me up.

I took the slowest, deepest, most painful breath of my life. I let it out really slowly too. Breathing regularly was impossible, and breathing slowly, when my lungs burned with the need for air, was agonizing, but necessary.

I didn’t have enough room for a regular breath.

I had no idea why I needed it to be so slow and measured at the time, but was relieved that it worked incredibly well. For the next five minutes, a time that seemed like an hour, I kept taking those breaths, eventually realizing that since I didn’t have enough room in my throat to take a regular breath, if I just slowed my breaths down, I’d live.

Finally I had enough breath to call for help.

I’m remembering this day for many reasons. Mostly to embed in my heart the feelings of not wanting to die. The desperate clarity. The aching lust for my next breath.

I’ve been depressed lately. Occasional suicidal thoughts. I dismissed them as pre-retirement jitters but now I know the cause. I must write. Every day. Sometimes in places where no one will look, or hear. But I must.

It’s not a choice for me, and I’d forgotten that.

Writing out my feelings is my daily slow deep painful breath. and if I do it more often, it will be easier to let it flow. My spiritual throat will relax and open. And I’ll be whole again.

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