Breathing Again

As a life-long asthmatic, I've always appreciated breathing more than most people learn to. As a child, before serious asthma meds, I learned not to panic or hyperventilate when the attacks came. My dad would spend hours in the night picking me up and calming my lungs down. This bronchial thing - I've called it Hillary - has been one of the worst in a long while. Asthma medication is far better than it used to be - those evil pharmaceutical companies are to blame - but a combo of allergies, bacteria and exhaustion can still revive my old dark fears and knock me on my back. I was convinced for a long time that if I died of AIDS, it would be through pneumocysistis. I watched what it did to friends and it wasn't pretty. But today, I actually was able to get on my bike and cycle for a few blocks and breathe without seizing up. I was able to spend a whole day out of bed for the first time in almost two weeks. And was it a beautiful day. Most of the time, I don't stop simply to marvel at the miracle of breathing, of the feeling of clear air in your lungs, the origin of the words "inspire" and "spirit." But I did today. And it was a wonderful thing.