Take a breath

A few weeks’ ago I found myself hunched by my front door, gasping for air – alone. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t talk. And I couldn’t look after myself. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat a little quicker. As the emergency operator encouraged me through each attempted breath, I grasped every particle of energy I had to stay conscious. I needed to let the approaching paramedics in. I worried they’d have to break down my door which would be: 1) inconvenient to fix, and 2) could injure me further.

In the midst of this experience I did the stupidest thing anyone experiencing terrifying symptoms should do – I Googled them. Why? Well, I was trying to convince myself that I was fine, that I was being a hypochondriac. A GP had visited me just three hours earlier (at 3am in the morning) and I’d been ‘fine’ when he left. Now my lungs were shut tight – no air was going in or out. I was projectile coughing mysterious, white foam all over myself, all over the floor.

My doorbell buzzed after what felt like an hour (it can’t have been longer than 10 minutes). I was greeted by the most attractive human I’ve seen in a long time. Seriously!?! I was in my pyjamas, covered in gross foamy stuff, a weird shade of blue and gaunt, getting rescued by McFreakingSteamy. It was all very dramatic and rather unnecessary.

As we sped along in the bumpy ambulance, I still didn’t realise how serious my condition was. I teased McSteamy as he stumbled a little, trying to sort out my nebuliser (so I could breathe) – yes, I am that shade of arsehole. I chatted with another paramedic who was born in Joburg and raised in New Zealand. I scoffed when we got to the hospital and they brought me a wheelchair, saying “you guys are all going to be very embarrassed when you realise I’m actually really not that bad”. But when I stood up I toppled over and lost my breath.

I was taken into A&E, checked and immediately moved into resuscitation. I had my own personal doctor (well, technically I had three) and two nurses working for some time to get oxygen back into my body, while (apparently) preventing my heart from crashing. I had no idea what was going on but it all felt unnecessarily theatrical.

I always thought being a paramedic was a bit of a gross job. People bleed and vomit on you and you have to jump on top of people to work at their stopped hearts. You work awful hours too. But when McSteamy popped past my bed and gave me a little nod on his way out of the hospital, I realised how cool his job is. He wore a look of humility-mixed-with-pride on his face that I’ll never forget. He knew he’d saved my life that morning and he was so very elegantly-smug about it.

As vial after vial of magnesium were pumped through my veins I felt incredible waves of warmth. As the warmth subsided and I began to feel stable, I felt alone. I dived deep into a moment of self-pity. Then I took another moment and realised that I hadn’t actually told anyone I was in hospital. I pulled out my phone and sent a few texts and immediately I had friends on the way and others calling through. I was on my own, I was not alone. I am never alone. I just needed to ask for help. And in the following days I’d have so many visitors that I’d have to stop them from coming so I could get some rest.

I’ve learnt a few lessons from losing my breath. Firstly, I’m learning to ask for help when I need it. I should have called for emergency help MUCH sooner (I was appropriately told off on my ambulance journey and later on by the doctors who likened the severity of my asthma attack to a heart attack). I should have called my family and friends when I was struggling in the night – not after I was admitted to hospital.

In the week that followed my escape from the respiratory ward, I stayed at a friend’s home, getting fed tea and snacks, while resting. I continue to accept that sometimes we need to let others look after us. As a tough, independent, don’t-need-anyone lady, I will continue to struggle with this concept. The amazing people who’ve cared for me, from my friend who flew from the States to move into my home and support me, to my friends and family who travelled and took time off to come see me, I’ve learnt that people really care – but they can’t care if they don’t know. We’re built for community, we’re designed to look after each.

Most poignantly, I’ve learnt to appreciate the life I have and the beautiful details around me – the kind you only notice when you slow down and dump perfection. How wonderful it is to take in a deep breath and feel my lungs fill with air – who cares about the unwashed plates in the sink? As I recall moving my bottles of gin from my ‘exposed’ butler’s tray into my kitchen cupboard at 3am, while gasping for air before my GP visit, I wonder why I was so worried about his perception of me.

I am blessed to be alive. I am blessed.

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