Breathe…It’s Only Your Life
Something to think about
I can’t breathe, I thought to myself as an episode of Friends — the one where Joey & Chandler get the foozball table — flicked by on the TV.
I was alone.
My parents each at work.
I was frozen, holding my beige, porcelain bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, spoon suspended in mid-air, as the realization that my lungs weren’t doing their job took hold.
Spontaneous pneumothorax. That’s what the EMTs in the ambulance had been mumbling, and it’s what the doctors in the hospital clearly told me after I was stabalized.
WTF?
“A nemo…what,” I huffed at the doctor, my throat making strange sucking sounds.
“A spontaneous nemo-thorax (that’s how it’s pronounced),” she said, concern frosting her words. “It can happen when an air-filled blister, what we call a ‘bleb,’ ruptures and air gets into the pleural space,” she paused briefly, sensing my confusion. “Umm, pleural space…it’s basically the area between your lung and your chest wall. Air shouldn’t be there…ever.”
She took a beat, her eyes searching for any sign that I was comprehending the seriousness of my condition. “The air puts pressure on your lung and makes the lung collapse. That’s why you couldn’t breathe.”
I nodded to her, flashing my best “I get it” face, while turning my body in the hospital bed ever so slightly. And then I felt a sensation I can only describe as someone pulling my breath out through my armpit while it was on fire. The pain rushed up my side, stabbing at me until it was buried deep inside my core, nesting next to my pounding heart.
I had completely forgotten about the curly plastic tube jutting from the side of my chest—what’s known as a chest tube; in this case it was called a “pigtail” tube, for obvious (curly) reasons. It spiraled out from my ribcage, cascading over the side of the bed, and into a chest drain contraption.
While this “pigtail” form of chest tube is meant to be less invasive, it’s also not quite as effective in aiding a severe pneumothorax.
And I had a severe pneumothorax.
One never truly realizes how difficult the act of breathing is. Air goes in, fleshy sacks inflate, air comes back out as carbon dioxide. Simple, right. Simple, until one of these sacks decides to up and quit, stubbornly staying crinkled and deflated at the bottom of your ribcage.
As I sat in my adjustable hospital bed, miserable tube dripping out my side, over the bed railing, I began to think about how much I needed a cigarette.
And I thought this ridiculousness as I watched a spoiled-milk-like substance ooze its way down the cheap plastic tubing.
“What I’d do for a Newport,” I said to myself. My brain scurrying to every corner of my mind, eyes flitting here, there…everywhere, searching for a way to make this happen.
But I was alone.
The Power
In the room was myself, a well-used green & tan chair, a cheap, framed (probably Shutter-stock) image of the loneliest palm tree I’d ever seen, with the incessant beeps pouring from the machines at my side filling in all the rest.
“Well, shit,” I thought, as a wave of defeat enveloped me.
Such is the power of nicotine, the power of a legal drug. Here I was, barely breathing, wearing an open-assed smock with a too-light blanket covering me in a meat locker cold hospital room, craving…no lusting, after a damn cigarette…Seriously? Phillip & Whoever had me by the short ’n’ curlies.
Sadly, I know I’m not alone here.
The door swung open and a Nurse came through, backside first, pulling a metallic table of hospital goodies…no smokes though. Everything on the damn tray was surgical-steel-shiny and downright horrifying…You didn’t need the machines to alert you to my rapidly increasing heart rate.
NO, thanks
“Hello, Mr. Gahh..manco,” she said/asked with a practiced porcelian smile. “Did I get that right?”
Stop moving so fast, lady, I thought to myself, a new panic settling in.
“Yeah, that was pretty close,” I assured her. “What’s all that for?”
“The doctor wants us to take a look down your windpipe,” she said. She caught my eyes fixed on the tool in her hand. “Oh…this?” She points to a fishing pole looking device. “Well, this is a teeny tiny camera that’ll go up and down your nose into your chest so we can see what’s going on.”
“Isn’t that what x-rays are for,” I choked out. Fear, not oxygen, courses through me like a greased-up monkey ready to be shot into space.
“It’s best if you don’t talk too much, sweetie. Your oxygen is already very low…best you conserve it,” she said dryly.
The condescension in that statement was so thick I could’ve grabbed it and slapped her with it…but I didn’t, of course. Instead, I amiably let them do the poking and prodding necessary for saving my life.
And that they did. It took longer than the average time for my lung to come back to function — three weeks later and around 98% functional — I was able to breathe again.
Being wheeled out of my room and down the corridor to the automatic doors was not as exciting as it had played out in my head. But…when that cool North Carolina air swept its way into my nostrils, fast-infiltrating my lungs, damn if I wasn’t immediately awoken to the things I’d been missing…
Then I coughed.
(It’s what happens when you breathe too deep, too fast…but that’s neither here nor there, seriously.)
For my life, I thank you
While this (rather) short moment will hopefully deliver some affect to those who read it, I realize that the greater message is in the “getting here” stage. Fu**ing cigarettes suck. Vaping sucks. Smoke in your lungs sucks. So…cliché alert…
Don’ t Do It.
Inevitably, though, some will.
Hell, I might…
I highly doubt it…
But, let’s be real, stranger shit has happened.
However you feel about your current breathing situation in life, just know that in a blink, a fart, a cough, a nano-f’ing-second it can be stolen from you. Stolen — get this — by none other than YOURSELF. We are responsible for “every breath we take.”
It’s about time we start recognizing it.
Helpful Resource
All states have quit-lines with counselors who are trained specifically to help smokers quit. Call this number 👇 to connect directly to your state’s quit-line.
800-QUIT-NOW (800–784–8669)
And remember…YOU own your next breath.
