In an unlit, hard to reach part of your mind, there’s a door. It’s probably locked but its so remote that it really doesn’t have to be. No one walks on that part of your mind and sometimes (very rarely) you peek around, shed a little light just to make sure its there, before turning around and heading back down the hall, around a flight of stairs and to the other wing of your mind. It’s the section that you know is part of you, don’t mind acknowledging its there but knowing that it held such a heavy presence in your past that you can’t really remember what to make of it: you just don’t want to repeat it. It’s secluded enough to make you uncomfortable but safely put away that you don’t often deal with it. <\/p>\n
My room is labeled asthma.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Now, I’m not afraid of my asthma anymore: haven’t been in a long time. But back in the past there were times where I thought that I could possibly die. Times early on where I would open my eyes from a hospital bed and see one of my parents sitting up in the milky dark, keeping watch. Later times where I had an attack so bad that I had to crawl up the stairs to my parents room, gasping and shouting empty, formless half sounds into the quiet.<\/p>\n
My parents always stood by me. They prayed for me. They fought for me. If it wasn’t for them I’d probably be hooked on steroids, speak through a hole in my throat and wouldn’t be the person I am today. They scarcely know how grateful I am to them on so many levels.<\/p>\n
I remember visits to the doc’s office and get an injection to open up my passageways. Or maybe a trip to the hospital for a nebulizer treatment. Finally I remember the day that I was given a Ventolin inhaler<\/a>, the power in my hand to stop an asthma attack before it got That Far.<\/p>\n I never want to see my kids go through the same as I did. I don’t want to live my parent’s fears. <\/p>\n