My Ode to Asthma

So, I don't usually blog, well I tried once, and failed miserably. In fact, chances are, after this post, I may not blog again. I also find the word 'blog' odd, but perhaps that is because it sounds like 'blob', and 'to blob' would be odd. Nevertheless, in these past two weeks there have been a few things I've needed to get off my chest, so to speak.

Warning, it is long, (which is why I don't write often), so pace yourself.

Written : Tuesday, 20 July 2010.

Exactly one week ago, on this day, I was lying in a hospital bed, with a mask strapped to my head inhaling all sorts of steroids and thinking the worse. This time last week, it felt like my lungs had decided, “You’re on your own mate, we outta' here!” Yes, I can be quite drama sometimes. But for those who didn’t already know, I was admitted in hospital last Tuesday for a really bad asthma attack. The first, in 16 years. Yep, as a child I was rather scraggly and sickly and was diagnosed with asthma at the age of seven or eight (my mum remembers such details, me not so much). The doc then recommended swimming, of which I did and it really helped. I then, apparently, became a pretty good athlete and developed a decent set of lungs.

But I reckon all that running around in the sun, in high school, training and stuff, probably had a long term effect on my brain cells (or the lack thereof) because for some apparent reason after high school I started smoking. Yeah, no, eight years later, I too am thinking, not so clever.

Anyway, eight years later, through a combination of smoking and a whole lot of other ‘stressful’ things that I put my lungs through - lack of sleep (exams, assignments, incompetent group mates, intolerable lecturers and the world cup), then falling ill and playing futsal at a dusty-incomplete / half built-pieces of-steel-and-open-bags-of cement-lying-around-yet-endorsed-by-FAM court – my lungs, like an angsty rebellious teenager, ran upstairs and slammed the door on me.

Anyway long story short, I was in and out of the hospital from Friday till Monday, where they administered steroids through inhalation and injections but breathing was still a difficulty. Finally on Tuesday, after walking from the front of the house to the back, I felt tired. Imagine, me, who can play futsal for 6 hours straight, feeling out of breath after walking such a short stretch??!! So at this point I told grandma that it was best we go to hospital.

See the thing is, in the days before that, every time I went to the hospital a different doctor had attended to me, and they all gave me a pat on the back, told me I’d be okay and sent me on my way. Thankfully, on Tuesday the doctor on duty was the same as the one who attended to me on Friday and so he recommend admission and called for the Chest Specialist. Of course, it all sounds very straight forward and I make it sound like I strolled in ‘coolly’ and said “Okay, look, I can’t breathe, now what’s the problem and how can we sort it out?”. In actual fact I was a big baby, and was scared shitless. Like, I even remember saying to my mum at some point, “Mama, I’m scared”.

To begin with, I’ve never been a fan of hospitals, and can’t think of many who are, but hospitals have always kinda unnerved me and I’ve never fancied spending prolonged hours at a hospital. But, I realized the scary thing about hospitals is not so much the funky smell of sanitation and old people, nor the notorious mortuary ghost stories (ok, maybe a little), it isn't even the sounds that resonate from beyond the drawn curtain, or the ghastly hospital gowns (oh, the gowns!) - At that point, I realized that what scared me the most was the sickening feeling of absolute helplessness where your only option is to place all your trust (as well as life) in the hands of a stranger who you pray (and dear God, do you pray) has got himself / herself a good medical education (Ireland and India, can... Romania a bit dodge).

I guess, I’d relate it to my dad’s fear of flying – being 30,000 feet off the ground and having no control whatsoever over the course of the next few hours – and for someone who is always in control you could understand how that can be a scary thing. And so that’s how it was, last week, I felt like I was suspended 30,000 feet off the ground and had no idea what was going to happen next. No seriously, I had all these ill thoughts, of pneumonia, bronchitis, H1N1 and worse still, lung cancer (it's like all those images off the cigarette packets had a delayed but eventual mortifying effect). I mean I had never felt like that before, I remembered my asthma attacks when I was young and it was nothing like this, this time my chest actually felt like it was going to cave-in on me, no seriously, drama aside, mama actually had to massage my chest so it wouldn’t hurt so much when I breathe.

Alas, it was nothing too serious, although it certainly was a serious enough asthma attack. My stay at the hospital was an experience (although I reckon more for everyone else than for me). Seeing that the last time I had been admitted I was two or three (again, my mum remembers these things with innate accuracy), this meant that technically, I had no experience or the basic survival instinct that would prepare me for hospital admission. Apparently, humour (or my brand of it at least ) is not quite recommended for a patient, or at least that's the impression I got from the nurse who chose to ignore my quip on where the mini-bar was and if my room was in the smoking section of the ward. Geez, so much for Patch Adams.

So Fifi Jane, took the first night shift, and Mama took the second night shift. By the second night, the single (because all the other nurses were friendly and she probably is single hence the following attribute) grumpy, night shift nurse, told me that it wasn’t advisable for guest to stay. So I asked a much friendlier nurse the next morning what this meant and she said that stay over rule for guest applied to patients who are either confused or are children.... I stared at her blankly... She obviously couldn’t tell that I was both, childlike and confused!

Anyway, I braved the next few days on my own, although it was not too difficult a task. I had heaps of magazines, books, a laptop and broadband, a portable DVD player that you could also play old school Nintendo games on, yeah, you know the type, SUPER MARIO anybody? Although, when recovering from an upper respiratory track infection it's not such a good idea to play heart racing, 'breath-holding', intense, World-1 Level-2 Super Mario (don't laugh, I take my Super Mario very seriously!).

Friends ensured I was spoilt (rotten), especially for food, I only ate two of the hospital meals (hah hah!), there was a constant provision and variety of my favorite food, much to my approval. Plus, I was never short of good company. In fact, almost every afternoon my siblings and friends made themselves very comfortable on my hospital bed and there would usually be at least three or four of us bunked on that one small bed.

I was allowed to leave on Saturday and have been at home recuperating since. Which means I've had a lot of time alone with my thoughts (never a good thing). But yeah, I guess I've had a lot of time to think about things, this experience and all. Mostly, I think I've realized that you go through life thinking you're invincible, you know, unbeatable, and then you're just not. It truly is a significantly humbling thing, especially for a person with an ego the size of mine, sca-ry. I guess everything becomes a bit more real.

I also realize (and this is not a recent epiphany or anything just that this experience has further emphasized it), that even with all it's dysfunctional quirks, I have THE most amazing family - especially a Mama and grandma that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world! And the most unbelievable set of friends! I ain't no Mother Teresa, so why and how I have such great friends will eternally be beyond me (as with a lot of other things, but yeah).

To Fifi Jane & Badam, Teacher Stephanie, Eels, Cathy Chin and Joelah Charles thanks for just knowing what to do for a poor pavem patient. Much, much love to all those who visited - Dr. Anu (for being all doctor-y and helping me through the panic attack), Mell Saw (for taking half a day off to come see, or so I would like to think), Primus (for bringing balloons to an asthma patient), Ho Sze Ken (for the Angelina Jolie tabloid magazines), Katrina (for the fruit basket and for thinking asthma turns you into a frail, 93-year-old), Husband and Dex (for the fried rice and hokkien mee), Kerry-Ann and Angela (for coming half a day late, but visiting nevertheless), Rachel & Joseph and Uncle Matthew and Aunty Margie for the lovely company. Oh, and Toto and Dr. Alan Peter, I really appreciate all the medical advice and concern. And to everyone else for all their kind wishes and warm thoughts.

And as with all life experience's, I've learnt a few things : -

1) I have many doctor friend's (never a bad thing).
2) I now understand why the insurance industry is one of the most profitable industries in the world (note : It is however, 18 spots behind Pharmaceuticals and Medical Products & Equipment).
3) I now understand why I should buy insurance
4) Nursing is a highly respected profession and all nurses should receive a Medal of Honor, especially the ones who had to tend to the patient in front of me.
5) At Assunta Hospital, you don't have to wear those ghastly hospital gowns unless you require surgery.
6) When you are an asthma patient, regardless of whether you can run a marathon, swim across the English Channel AND complete the Tour de France... Do Not Smoke! ;-)