It was Saturday morning 10/04/09 when I finally decided I had to call in sick to work.  I thought it was just a bad cold, a stuffy nose, bad cough, all the normal cold symptoms.  When my boss answered the phone he was very polite and understanding, knowing I don’t often call in, he told me to take care and get better.  After getting off the phone I sat up and began blowing my stuffed up nose till it hurt and I could feel scabs forming around my nostrils.  I decided to take some medicine and try to get some sleep. 
   
    A few hours passed by and I woke up having an asthma attack, not to surprised by this I reached for my inhaler and took two puffs.  I started to feel a bit of relief immediately, but not for long.  I laid back down in my bed and fell back asleep only to wake up to another asthma attack only an hour later.  I decided sleeping was no longer in the realm of possibilities, took more medicine, and two more puffs of my inhaler. Then a bit later I had to take two more puffs again, and again, and again.   I wondered if it was possible to OD on a rescue inhaler, because I was only supposed to take it no more than four times a day.

    My breathing was becoming more and more of a chore, when Tim, my roommate, came home from work.  I told him I was having a hard time breathing and that my inhaler wasn’t helping me, and that if things didn’t get better I might have to go to the hospital.  He told me I would be ok and I figured maybe he was right so he left to go out with a friend and I sat on the couch still gasping for air. 

    He had told me he would only be gone for a little while, I called him semi panicked wanting to know when he would be home.  At this point I was starting to think I might die.  He said he was on his way and would be there soon, but hours passed before he finally arrived.  I told him I thought I should probably go to the hospital, but he asked if I thought I could just wait till the morning.  I thought maybe I was wrong, maybe I was okay, so I agreed. 

    Four in the morning came, I couldn’t breathe, I could barely stand, I knew at this point if I didn’t get help soon, I would die.  I crawled into Tim’s room, flailed my arm at him and tried to muster the words hospital, hospital, I need to go to the hospital.  After he came around and realized what I was saying, he huffed and got dressed and asked me if I was ready.  I was just sitting on the couch gasping for air, thinking about whether or not I was going to die.  We left the apartment, went down the stairs, and got into his car heading for the hospital. 

    Getting out of the car and walking towards the emergency entrance I kept feeling winded, as if my body couldn’t function.  There was just not enough oxygen.  I walked into the ER, still gasping for air, looking like a fish out of water.  Quickly I grabbed a pen and began to fill out my information on the check in clipboard at the front desk.  As if it wasn’t obvious, under reason for visit, I wrote difficulty breathing.

    Within minutes I was taken in, while I waited for the doctor and was doing a breathing treatment, Tim took his leave to go home and sleep.  I just laid  there waiting.  Finally a doctor came and started to listen to my chest. 

      Finally, I thought to myself , he will look at me give me a shot or a pill and send me on my way.  Unfortunately for me, the first words he said to me were your lungs should not sound that bad at your age.  Nurses started to come in to take blood samples and hook me up to an I.V.  I was told I would be staying at least the whole day and they would be assigning me a room, I wasn’t sure I liked the idea.  Hospitals are known these days for pushing people out early, so them telling me I had to stay meant things were really bad.
   
    I started to text my friend Stephanie in a panic, I was scared and nervous and alone continuing to  be poked and prodded.  I didn’t think they were going to leave me any blood for myself.  Stephanie rushed to the hospital and was there in minutes to keep me company.  I was a pathetic sight to be seen.

    All that kept going through my head was I did this to myself.  I had been a sickly child, had pneumonia god only knows how many times, and I decided at 14 it would be a good idea to start smoking.  But I wasn’t just a smoker, I was your chain smoker, two to four packs a day depending if I had to work or not.. I had started taking Welbutrin to help me cut down and ease me into quitting a few months ago because I started having more and more asthma attacks, but I didn’t quit in time to avoid this.  I kept rationalizing that if I quit by 30 I should be fine, no serious health problems from the smoking.  Boy was I wrong, here I was, in the hospital, at 27 just praying I would stay alive, and be able to breathe again on my own.