This is rather a long post. Skip if you must. But if you have time to read, play this as a background music.
When I was a kid, I was having a hard time grasping for air. I was a sickly little kid. It was not always like that. It started to happen growing up when my parents decided to transfer residence back to their native province. Since then, I have been trying my best to inhale using my mouth, because using my nose, wouldn't be enough to grasp oxygen. I don't know what is the exact medical terminology for it, I was never diagnosed nor brought to a medical center for check-up. (If this happened today, I would have been tagged positive for Covid19.). For one, my folks cannot afford the hefty hospital bills. And the other is the too much trust in traditional Filipino healing and alternative medicines. Think of it as a different generational perspective. In their prime, they never really had to go to a hospital whenever they get sick or something. A little dose of herbal and traditional massage would do.
My old folks they said, my sickly situation was caused by some dislocated joint in my arm after I fell and rolled down the stairs of a two-storey house when I was a year and few months old. And whenever that particular joint is overworked or somehow affected by too much activity, it gets swollen causing tensions in veins and blocking airflow in the arteries. I was too young to remember the accident, it happened when I was trying to get up and walk with my walker. And down I went rolling.
So, whenever I get sick, they would take me to a traditional healer. This person, usually an old man (who smells like *tinustos tabacco) , will massage the part where they say I got my dislocated joints. He'd put some ointment and wrap it with herbal leaves. I'd be taking some medicines too, over the counter drugs that don't need doctor's prescription called aspilets. Any 90's kid knows what "aspilets" are. A medicine that tasted like a candy, a sweet red orange tablet.
When I was in grade 2, I remember it as the worst time of me being sick, I remember grasping air so bad, that at times I must get on my tippy toes to take a small tiny inhale and it was never ever enough, to a point where my heart and lungs ache like I'm being choked to death. Imagine the horror in my classmates faces, look like when this sh** happens.
My old folks say it was an asthma attack or something. And yet again of course, there was no medical diagnosis to support it. Still I believed it was indeed an asthma attack. Whenever these attacks happen, I would keep on holding back tears as I struggle to breathe. There are those moments when I wanted to cry, but if I would, it will only worsen my pain even more. Because those low feeble sounds that kids like me make when crying, would affect my breathing even more difficult to do so. Never did giving up crossed my mind. It is as if every now and then I keep holding unto the idea that I will get better soon. It took forever and never sooner than I thought it would be.
I don't know what it was called back then, but now I know what this feeling is, it's called hope.
My folks never bothered to baby talk to me. At a young age they spoke to me as if I am an adult. My father would look at me like there was no other way but for me to fight whatever I had going on. I can see a distant pain in his eyes, but he is not a very expressive man. When my mother is not looking, he would whisper to me, "breathe, or we will have to bury you tomorrow". Tough love eh? My mother, she would look at me with concern, she would pat and massage my back, give me a glass of water, and tells me it's okay, that everything is okay. And I took her word for it.
Fast-forward to the future, I have outgrown those challenging times. I haven't had an asthma attack for a very long time. Never once, have I tried using inhaler, obviously not an option to people struggling financially. I eventually got myself better by engaging in a more physical activity like jogging and swimming. The struggle to take a deep breath taught me to appreciate air even more so. There are times when I go back into inhaling with my mouth, out of habit. I noticed that I am doing it whenever I feel stressed and exhausted. It was the default reaction when there is an insurmountable pressure going on. It is psychological, a coping mechanism of sort. But I try my best to take fresh deep breathe every now and then. And whenever I do, I do it with all the gratefulness in my heart. I do not have trouble grasping for air anymore and yet when I take a deep breathe, I remember all that difficulty I have been through. There is still that tiny shy tear peeking right in the corner of my eye, that I still try to hold back, but this time, it is not because I'm struggling with pain, but because I survived it. A simple reminder to keep on going. To keep on breathing as long as I can.
And I am sharing this, not because I want to take pity of my previous experience. There never really was a need for pity, after all, it was more of a lesson to remember. To take a moment to appreciate life as it is whatever the struggle we are going through. Take a pause, clear your mind, and just take a very deep breath. Feel the air as it runs from your nose into your trachea. Feel that sensation as the air fills in, and your lungs expands, hold it a little longer and then release it with a satisfying exhale. BREATHE. Yes, that's it, breathe with awareness. It's is the fundamental requisite of feeling alive.
If you have read through till the end. Thank you. I hope that this little piece of my life I shared, eases your worries or whatever challenges you are going through today. Keep on breathing! And appreciate the gift of life a little more.
Your friend,
Pajeebear 11/04/2020
