Attack

It hits.

When it hits, its hard.

When it hits, its fast.

When it hits, it hurts.

They fail me. My lungs.

It no more is an habitual reflex. I have to think about each breath. I have to scrap for the next one. I clench the arm rests. I sit a little taller. I don’t speak. Any meager attempt to force feed my lungs more oxygen. They resist. They push back. They don’t want air. The tubes narrow, they tighten. My chest hurts. I have a headache. I need more air. Crying makes it worse. When you cry, you breath heavy. When it happens and I cry, I suffocate. It’s as if my tubes have turned to straws. Slender, precious, crystalline straws. Any moment they will crumble. Then what?

They say slow controlled breathes help. They don’t.

They say in through the nose, out through the mouth helps. It doesn’t.

I need albuterol.  Nothing else. Just albuterol.

Relief.