Just Breathe

When I was twenty-four, I was diagnosed with asthma in the traditional way: at a dinner party at a doctor’s house. I had gone from the dining room (warm) to the porch where people were having canapés and cocktails (cold) and commenced to cough. Since I was in day nine of Quinn’s Annual Bronchial Plague, I thought nothing of it and sequestered myself by the tomato plant in the corner to have a satisfying half-hour hack. Nearly everyone inched away from me, but my feelings weren't hurt in the least. My bronchial opera isn't pleasant to be around. I have been known to break blood-vessels in my throat, such is my coughing. Once, I found myself in an ER waiting room sitting across from a person holding a dirty rag against what appeared to be a stab-wound. He  watched me cough a few minutes and said I could go ahead of him. So you can imagine my surprise when the host actually sought out my company.

“Where’s your inhaler?” he asked.

I waved my arms around in a way I thought would convey Thank you for your concern, but this isn’t asthma as much as the tail-end of a bronchial Cthulhu and it will abate somewhere between now and next month.

“I don’t know why anyone hasn’t told you this, but you have asthma,” he said firmly. “Now come in the house and let me see if I have something for you.”

Always accept dinner-party invitations at a doctor’s house. A few minutes later I was no longer coughing. One specialist's appointment later, I had an official diagnosis: asthma. I had the type most usually aggravated by a previous illness, which explained why my November cold usually left me hacking and wheezing until April. I was given two inhalers -- one for crisis situations and one for every day use -- and told to take care of myself. Since “take care of myself” meant “stay away from people who are smoking and work out regularly,” I can honestly say asthma may be the best thing which ever happened to my health. Of course, I’m great in a crisis but kind of a disaster when is comes to mundane tasks. Some days, I’d carry my inhalers; most weeks, I wouldn’t. Hey, I’d think. I’m fine! When I’m not fine, I’ll carry my inhaler! Come to think of it, I haven’t had an attack in months. Perhaps I’ve outgrown asthma! And sometimes I’d forget to get a new inhaler when the old one ran low but, Hey, asthma hasn’t happened in months!

About six years later, I got sick. Because I’m all about timing, my illness ramped up and required antibiotics late one night, on what turned out to be  the coldest night of the year. Consort offered to make the run to the all-night pharmacy but I got weirdly stubborn and insisted I could take care of it myself. He drove. When we arrived at the pharmacy, I got out of the car (warm), and since I couldn’t breathe through my nose, I sucked in a blast of nearly freezing air through my mouth. My bronchi closed with the finality of a bank-vault and I started to cough. Coughing pushed whatever air was left in my lungs out, but when I attempted to breathe back in, I couldn’t. And then I’d cough again. The force of it caused me first to lean against the car and then eventually sit cross-legged on the ground, coughing and pawing through my purse looking for my inhaler which was safely and ineffectively back home. Consort was next to me, looking down and saying calmly, “We have to go to the emergency room now, you’re not breathing, let’s get you into the car” and I’m coughing and waving my hands at him in the It’s really not that big a deal, just give me a quick tracheotomy and we’ll be on our way manner, but I was clearly hypoxic and I rarely make my best decisions hypoxic. And all the while some part of my brain is thinking This can’t be the way I die. It’s too stupid.

We found an inhaler in the glove-compartment. I have no recollection of putting one there. I think the universe looks out for me but is well within its rights to roll its eyes every now and again.

I thought of that incident this week when Anthony Shadid died. Mr. Shadid was, by any measurement, an extraordinary journalist. This is from Wikipedia:

• From 2003 to 2009 he was a staff writer for The Washington Post where he was an Islamic affairs correspondent based in the Middle East. Before The Washington Post, Shadid worked as Middle East correspondent for the Associated Press based in Cairo and as news editor of the AP bureau in Los Angeles. He spent two years covering diplomacy and the State Department for The Boston Globe before joining the Post's foreign desk.
• In 2002, he was shot in the shoulder by an Israeli sniper in Ramallah while reporting for the Boston Globe in the West Bank.
• On 16 March, 2011, Shadid and three colleagues were reported missing in Eastern Libya, having gone there to report on the uprising against the dictatorship of Col. Muammar Al-Ghaddafi. On 18 March 2011, The New York Times reported that Libya agreed to free him and three colleagues: Stephen Farrell, Lynsey Addario and Tyler Hicks.The Libyan government released the four journalists on 21 March 2011.
• Shadid twice won the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting, in 2004 and 2010, for his coverage of the Iraq War. His experiences in Iraq were the subject for his 2005 book Night Draws Near, an empathetic look at how the war has impacted the Iraqi people beyond liberation and insurgency. Night Draws Near won the Ridenhour Book Prize for 2006. He won the 2004 Michael Kelly Award, as well as journalism prizes from the Overseas Press Club and the American Society of Newspaper Editors. Shadid was a 2011 recipient of an honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters from the American University of Beirut. He won the George Polk Award for Foreign Reporting in 2003 and in 2012 for his work in 2011.

This guy was the real deal. He spent his career making a fascinating and dangerous part of the world comprehensible to civilians like me. Last week, Mr. Shadid died in Syria, not from a bullet or an explosive device, but from asthma. He was trying to leave Syria on horseback and suffered an asthma attack. Reports were he was especially allergic to horses. He probably wouldn’t have chosen to leave Syria that way but it’s a war zone and he took a chance, as he had so many times before while reporting from that part of the world. Maybe he had his inhaler with him. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe this was avoidable. Maybe this wasn’t -- some asthma attacks are not going to turn around even with an inhaler. Maybe he had a moment of thinking "This can’t be the way I die. It’s too stupid."

Mr. Shadid left a legacy of award-winning journalism and great writing.

Mr. Shadid also left a wife and two small children.

And Mr. Shadid left a chilling reminder to all of us who live with asthma; can kill you. If you’re reading this and you have asthma, please stop reading right now and check to make sure you have a working inhaler and that it's with you at all times. Make sure it’s not expired. If it is, get it replaced. You’ve never gotten me a birthday present, so consider it an early gift to me.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Shadid.