Asthma

Colby is twelve when I am diagnosed with asthma. It is he, in fact, who diagnoses me. He has had asthma since he was three and somehow knows that my series of worsening coughs is asthma, rather than allergies.

Colby also has (had) asthma. From the time he is three until he is nine, Colby has several stays on the children's floor of Vanderbilt Hospital. This is before the new children's hospital is built. His first asthma episode comes on the last day of my old job, the one I resign from so I can open my own business. Colby is three and a half and I want to do this so I can be a room mother, go on his school field trips, and take him to ball practices.

On this afternoon his babysitter calls to say I should come early. Colby is sick. I am desperately trying to wind things up at the old job, but I get there as soon as I can. The doctor, not his usual physician, asks why I'd waited so long before bringing him in with an asthma attack. I reply that my son doesn't have asthma. But apparently now he does.

We are on the children's floor for five days. Twice, hospital volunteers stay with Colby while I go back to our house to feed our two dogs, and our cat and horse. Colby has breathing treatments every four hours so we are up all the time. The only place for me to sleep is in an armchair. I am so very, very tired.

On the second day, representatives from the bank come to Colby's room so I can sign the loan papers for the new business. On the third day I come down with a sinus infection. On the fourth day I am in the hospital parking lot, coming back from feeding the animals when, exhausted, I slip and fall, breaking my instep. I hobble up to Colby's room and spend the rest of the afternoon and all night in the chair with my foot propped up on the arm. How ironic, I think, that I am here in the hospital and cannot go to the emergency room; there is no one to watch Colby. The next day, as soon as they release Colby, we limp down to the emergency room where x-rays confirm the break. I am on crutches for the next six weeks. None of the later stays were that dramatic, but combined, they gave Colby a sixth sense about asthma.

After I am diagnosed, Colby is (was) always the first to recognize my impending episodes. He could tell just by looking at me, or after few seconds on the phone, and would ask if I'd thought about checking my air flow or using an inhaler. Now, without Colby's instincts, I find myself in the throws of a bad asthma episode. Not bad enough to seek out a physician, yet. But maybe. Maybe soon. Without Colby I cannot tell until I am already wheezing that asthma is rearing it's ugly head again. His early intervention stopped most of my episodes and they rarely needed professional medical attention.

Every day I find another way to miss Colby and today this is added to the list. This, now, is added to his humor, intelligence, eclectic taste, quirks, talent, kindness, conversation, and a host of other things. Today I read a heartfelt letter from a mom who lost her son forty years ago. Her heart is still breaking, as is mine.