Life has a way of reminding us that breathing really isn't "just is". My relationship with breathing obviously started the day I was born, but it's only been in the last five years that I've spent time thinking about the act of breathing. Bear with me, you know my brain doesn't rest often... because I have spent hours thinking about the inhale and the exhale of life. 2015, as most of my friends know, was a truly horrific year. The first six months of the year marked six months of absolute stress and trauma. January came in with us preparing to move from Pennsylvania to Arkansas and the loss of our family dog, Chaucer. February saw us in Arkansas with ten days to find a house and then the return home to PA to find the interior at 25 degrees and frozen solid-- toilet water included and shards of metal, from the blown up radiators, frozen to the surfaces of the floors and cabinetry. March saw us living in a hotel, prepping to move to Arkansas, insurance agents and claims, workers in and out of the still frozen house, and a move to Arkansas with only what we could fit in our vehicles. April brought me another trip back to PA to get ready to move and the actual move, which garnered a return trip. That's 1,200 miles one way. I did that five times in the first four months of the year. May brought that "breath of fresh air" but I was already geared to expect the worst of 2015. June came around, vandals broke into our PA house. 1,200 miles on way to repaint the walls and clean the mess. 1,200 miles, and one flat tire in Somewhere, Indiana. The work on the house for the frozen pipes wasn't complete until August. At this point, we were strapped for cash in a hardcore way. Insurance didn't cover all of the $25, 000 worth of damage and we now had two mortgages. We tried for five years to sell that house. It would take another two years before we were rid of it.
It was now the end of 2015. I have seen a couple of pictures of myself from that fall and winter. I look aged in a way that only stress can do. It's not a good look. My eyes speak volumes, and then again just look hollow. I was struggling with what life chunked at me-- there was no handling of the matter, it was straight up dung bombs-- and trying to find where I fit in to my new life. Thus began my thoughts about breathing. I wasn't sleeping much anymore. My favorite thing to say at the time was "There's no waiting for the next shoe to drop-- it will." 2015 was a nightmare, literally. So I would lay in bed at night and listen to myself breath. The anxiety of it all sat on my chest. There was no getting out from under it. Wake up. It's there. Lay down to sleep. It's there. But at night, there is no one and no activity to put off the thinking. Breathe in. Breathe out. A simple process. And the weight is so heavy. Hold the breath. It doesn't hurt. The emotions of loss of our beloved pet, to the loss of my church family and friends in PA (a desperate homesickness for the support of those who KNEW me and my history with them), to the trauma of all the things thrown at us sat there on my chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. The simplicity of that blessing from our Creator, the act of breathing took effort. Those nights were me, God, and breathing. It took a good couple of years to breathe my way through what was 2015.
The years have gone by with easier breathing. Things have slowed down. It took a long time to trust life again... that there wasn't something around the corner that was going to jump out at me. Talk about PTSD. Last September was my 39th birthday. Not gonna lie, that kind of bothered me a bit. I've been breathing for 39 years, but that 40th was staring at me from a year away. I pondered the type of year 2020 would be leading up to the Big Day. As with every other living human being on the planet, this is not the 2020 I envisioned. It's somewhat reminiscent at times of 2015. 2020 and I certainly didn't start out on the right foot. The youngest kid got strep the first week of January. By January 8th, I was hit with fever (the likes of which my body only experienced when I had chicken pox as a kid-- 103.5 in an adult ain't right), body aches, headache, sore throat, and chest pain. Now I don't know if what I had was coronavirus. The first weekend in January I was at singing event where people all over the country had come together. It was beautiful, but also within the realms of possibility of getting the sick from someone there. I was flu negative. I've had dozens of people message me "Hey, do you think..." I'll never have a definitive answer to that. My experience does mirror just as many stories as I've seen in recent months. I did an antibody test recently and it came back negative, with a bunch of disclaimers saying the test wasn't really a good one and I should try something else. Also in recent weeks, they say the antibodies don't stay around for very long. It's been six months. So there's that.
What I can tell you is that I had a lung event. An overall inability to breathe due to build of liquids (of some viscosity) that made breathing exceptionally difficult. Pneumonia stemming from the flu. Breathe in-- well, that's difficult... keep it shallow. *crackle crackle* Breathe out-- well, that was painful. *crackle crackle* Hold the breath-- no pain. *crackle crackle* Apparently your lungs aren't supposed to sound like Rice Krispies. But I was not in my right mind. For three days my days looked like this: sleep for four hours, alarms goes off, take temperature (never found it under 102),pop meds, strip out of sweat soaked clothes, stand under luke warm shower, reset alarm, go back to sleep. I was texting some friends who were checking in on me and my niece. I have no recollection of sending her a video of my the sounds my chest was making. All of them said "Go to the doctor now and if not that, go to the ER."
I spent a week in the hospital. I have very few memories of that time (and look forward to next year's TimeHop to show me what I posted in the midst of my oxygen deprived moments). But that breathing relationship was a hardship. There is no understanding of not being able to breathe until you literally can't. It's very difficult to hold off the panic. I'm a chill person. The lack of oxygen and the depth to breathe stretched that chillness thin. There was no leaving the hospital until I could expand my lungs well enough to breath without stressing them out. I have a cute little souvenir from the hospital that I was sent home with to continue my breathing exercises. It's not just being able to suck some air in and then release, you have to exercise the capacity to do so.
Two days after I got home, my then thirteen year old, having the same symptoms and a negative flu test (all while I was still in the hospital) walked into the kitchen, her face completely gray. That's not right. To the doctor and then to the hospital she went. She just didn't get the same fancy ambulance ride I got. I'm at home, still puffing away on my little breath exerciser thingy, and she's in the hospital trying to breath. It's a devastating moment to be sitting at home with weak lungs where walking from the bedroom to the kitchen is a breathless feat, and have your girl in the hospital also struggling. Breathing is all you think about. Breathe in. Breathe out. And praying that she will continue to breathe in and breathe out. She spent longer in the hospital than I did. Breathing. Struggling to breathe.
There's no quick bounce back from something like this. By the end of February I was still struggling, but finally felt like this was going to be okay. Let's get back to this normal living business. The world laughed. Mightily. Now there are people around the world that are struggling to breathe. And many who took that last breath. One of those clauses "to the last breath." There is an ultimate finality to that last breath. That simple thing looks you right in the face. You want it desperately. I can't think of a worse way to leave this world, honestly. I'd prefer something swift and done. But when all you have is a hospital bed, all the tubes, there's nothing more pressing than that next breath. The breath in. The breath out. And the tears rolling down your face in the pause between the inhale and the exhale. Nothing is more precious in that moment. Just like the first breath you took upon entering the world.
I've been dealing with some sinus congestion and a sore throat the last few days. It moved down a bit in my throat yesterday, and the urge to panic manifested. My psyche isn't on board with another lung event. So more thoughts on breathing. Slow breathing... it's going to be just fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. This isn't January or February. Breathing has taken up much of our first seven months of 2020. From the pandemic of gasping for the next (or last) breath to "I can't breathe."The unfortunate part of breathing these days is that our breaths have been politicized to the point where many have overlooked the essential need to breath. The breaths we have been given are being used in a variety of different ways, but mostly in ways that are detrimental to those facing their last breath. This is in no way a political post. But just what are the breaths that are taken easily doing for those whose breath is taken away? It's a simple thing to breath. We have good breaths, struggling breaths, painful breaths... if they are so precious, how are we using them? When you are out and about doing life, what are your breaths fueling? When you sit down in front of your computer, what breaths take over your body as you read things? Are they calm? Are they angry huffs? Slow, drawn out sighs? There is a pause between that inhale and that exhale, a choice in how to breath, how you allow yourself to breath. That breath is precious because you can choose how it will be used. For those who want that next breath so urgently, they aren't using it to fuel offense... they just want to breath, to live. We have a responsibility to those who just want to breath. "Take a breath" and be intentional with how that God-given breath serves those around us.
