I had a Asthma attack yesterday afternoon.
I had a mild head cold for the previous two days but I assumed, as it hadn’t gone to my chest, that I was fine.
Unfortunately, at 2pm, I got a bit of a shock.
My chest closed up and I couldn’t breathe.
David, my husband, was out (with my mother no less on a day trip to the British Museum!) and I was alone at home.
Panic set in.
It was only till my husband came home that I faced facts: I had been having a three hour, painful asthma attack.
At 5pm and realising that our shopping delivery was due and one of us needed to be at home to receive it, we began running through our options. Cab? Ambulance?
We turned to one of our neighbours and good friend to ask a favour. A neighbour that I’d recently joked to about how all the other neighbours in our flats kept calling on MY door asking for ludicrous favours such as travel money to get the bus! What the hell?? Of course my answer was “No”.
He and his wife had no hesitation and he immediately took me to hospital.
I did not realise how bad it was until I got seen.
The nurse took my blood pressure – fine. She noted my oxygen levels – perfect. She took my heart rate – fast, very fast. She checked my breathing – tight, shallow, struggling, wheezing.
I was given ten minutes of oxygen. I sat alone unable to relax as the nurse advised me to. All I could think about was the last time I was in that hospital. The last time in October of 2009. The last time where my father insisted that I was fine during a ten hour asthma attack. The night that he refused to call me an ambulance as I gasped for breath. The following Saturday morning where he insisted I should check my local doctor’s surgery was open before we disturbed the real professional with “something so minor”.
At least this time, my father was not there. That was a relief, as well as the oxygen.