Long long ago, in a galaxy far far away. . . so long ago that it seems sometimes that *that* life happened to someone else. . . before the children and hubby came along, I worked with a woman who suffered from adult-onset asthma.
She told the story of her very first incident, when she knew something was wrong but didn’t know what it was and could not communicate it to her husband and children. She described what her asthma attacks felt like and the scary, panicky feeling that came from being unable to catch her breath. It was at that time I realized how much of a blessing it is to be able to breathe freely.
At that time I was right in the middle of a great pity party. My life was not what I wanted it to be. I didn’t like my house, or my car, or my marital status. My job was okay but not great. My friends were very busy. I was horribly, horribly lonely. And it was spring in Alaska (which is called “breakup” because this is when the river ice breaks up) which is not the pretty time of year that it is other places: breakup is muddy and smelly and ugly and the road to my house flooded. I had many, many things to be grumpy and complain about.
But when my coworker talked about her asthma, all I could think of was how thankful I was to be able to breathe. Truly, it is one of the smallest blessings we have and we so often take it for granted until something major happens, like asthma.
I always remember that time when the urge to complain about life and everything consumes me. At least I can breathe.
It sounds trite; I don’t mean it to be. It’s a way to refocus my attention on the little positive bits of my life. I need that every once in a while.
Okay, okay, I’ll be honest. I need that lots of times. Every day, practically!