Wheezing

I am sitting in the family room. I’m half watching a college basketball game and half looking at things online. We are traveling tomorrow, and my wife comes down to discuss seats on the airplane.

“You’re wheezing,” she tells me. We talk for a bit and she tells me again. I can’t tell. I believe her, of course, but I can’t tell. I find it disturbing that other people can detect things in my body that I cannot sense. At least, I find it disturbing when they can detect things without special equipment.

So I am sitting on our couch. I’m waiting for our oldest son to get home. We have a mid-morning flight tomorrow, so I don’t know how late I’ll stay up. But I’m wheezing. What does it mean? I don’t feel it. I can’t tell if anything I do stops or diminishes it. I suffer from a symptom I don’t sense.

So I am wheezing. I call to one of my dogs to come sit next to me on the couch. She hesitates; the other comes slowly. He lays next to me. I want to ask him if I am wheezing. I’m more nervous now, I feel like I might be wheezing, or at least breathing shallowly. I try to slow down, catch my breath, relax.

So I am still wheezing. I must be. I feel the same. I keep writing the same things. I write short sentences like someone who wants to speak more but is wheezing.

Will I know if I stop wheezing, or if I’m still wheezing? Maybe I should go to bed. My son will come home. We will get up and get on the plane. And most likely, I will not be wheezing.

But right now, I think I’m wheezing. I don’t know how to escape right now.