Fading To Black

The last few nights have been blighted by asthma. Lying on the floor, each breath has been a hot, hard struggle. I have become reacquainted with the ragged gulps of air that are never enough to fill my lungs, the sensation of fire crawling across my upper back.

The asthma transports me back the seventies even more than my Nanna’s black and white television, circa 1971 gas stove and choice of brown upholstery fabrics. It was my childhood asthma that extinguished any boyish dreams of sporting glory. I was always cowered by the knowledge too much exertion on the pitch could lead me back to the isolation and oxygen tents I first experienced as a six-year-old.

The fear of asthma putting me back in hospital was nothing compared to the terror that would actually consume me during an attack. As the sense I was suffocating grew stronger, I would find myself fighting not just for breath, but against an irresistible panic. It was not some adult inspired existential dread designed to make children wary of ‘strange men’, it was total locked-in-blazing-building-hammering-on-the-doors-and-screaming panic. Sometimes when the fire of asthma raged in my chest burning up all the oxygen, I would begin to pass out with no certainty of coming back.

During one attack, when no Ventolin inhaler or adult was around, I found myself on the floor, fading to black as each breath was incinerated by the inferno inside. On the hazy edge of consciousness, I encountered a glimpse of self. Even though my lungs felt as is they were being blistered by smoke, my own calm voice was clear: ‘Everything will be OK.’ At that point, my fear was alchemised.

Right now, when panic about other areas could so easily engulf me again, I need to hear that voice. Need emotional alchemy. Need the growing black dog growl to turn to white light hope. Things will be better in London; it is my crucible.