Allan: When I was a small child, I had asthma. Respiratory
conditions were not new in my family; I inherited them from my father and his
mother. I remember receiving breathing treatments on a consistent basis,
whether or not anything was wrong with me—just a necessary prescribed
procedure. Every night, my mom would take this plastic box out of my closet,
the Nebulizer, plug it into the wall, turn it on, and give me this nozzle to
breathe in and out of. I grew out of asthma, but when I go home for Christmas
breaks, I see this old dance play out with my nephew; though his Nebulizer is
much smaller and is shaped like a penguin—it lacks the flashy 1980s aesthetics
of my greyish, “portable” Pulmo-Aide, a model the Internet tells me was
discontinued in 1993. I can still hear the old motor in that clunky square box,
humming as it transforms my medication into wet air. And an old smile presses
my cheeks as I see the slight puffs of white smoke billowing out the nozzle. It
was an entertaining way to breathe as a kid.
But
there were nights when my treatment was not enough. There were nights when I
had attacks. Nights and attacks that warranted my parents purchasing my
Nebulizer in the first place. I can remember a few times when my parents rushed
me into the bathroom, turning on the shower and hoping the steam might help me
breathe easier. But what I remember more is my dad taking me outside into the
night air. He’d hold me in his arms and walk around our little boxed-in yard
that was part of our townhouse apartment when we lived in Texas.
