My first fatal asthma attack
It was one of those attacks that progressively worsened over the day. When you have asthma, you use an albuterol inhaler or to provide immediate relief for constricted alveoli. What happens when you use it too often is called a "rebound", which means then more often you take it, the periods of relief are minimal, and the symptoms return quickly, cycling back and forth until there is no more albuterol left and you still can't breathe. Once you realize you are doing this, it's time to go to the hospital. Do not pass go, no waiting with a real asthma attack, surpass the waiting room, triage consists of one glance.
That day I had made it clear while I could still speak in complete sentences by saying "I need to go to the hospital, I'm having an asthma attack, please take me." I remember Chastine yelling "you need to calm down" the funny thing was, I can't speak too much or move when I can't breathe so obviously her remark served to confuse and upset me. She didn't understand the difference between asthma and anxiety, I'd like to think.
Then there was Robert who's claim to infamy was killing a baby while trying to save his life as a firefighter.
He tried rubbing my upper back,
I focused on a small place on the wall can't speak, every ounce of energy spent pulling oxygen in and releasing carbon dioxide. I heard him say he was calling an ambulance and making an absurd remark about sirens, mimicking sirens as though that would scare me into changing my mind. He was almost asking "Which way would you like to die?"
And I looked at the floor as he called 911, knowing that there was no that I was going to die. The floor was white ceramic tile, not quite like the image I see when I close my eyes sometimes: little tile ovals with black grout from grandmother Rita's bathroom floor. I remember thinking. "this is it. this is the last attack, I'm going to die now."
He opened the door and placed me on the sidewalk, put my wallet with my identification next to me and my necklace and shoes behind me. He had no vested interest in helping me anymore. The ambulance finally arrived and I couldn't lie down; I wasn't dead or unconscious yet. I couldn't speak but I may have been able to communicate because the Paramedic (I assume he was more than an EMT) looked at me once he picked me up off the ground and placed me on the stretcher. At that point I was on my knees, gripping the rail. Your body fights death till the bitter end. Breathing is one of those reflexive response for survival. You cannot lie down when you are in the throw of an asthma attack. The last thing I remember was the paramedic looking at me and saying "hold on".
I woke up in the trauma room, ripped the intubation tube out and saw the shirt I had been wearing, a tank top with a heart shaped American flag, had been cut down the middle, same with my jeans.