Late-Li fe Asthma

the doctor pushed through the inging, dual doors of the intensive

care unit and told me my mother had passed away from a heart attack, I knew he was mis- taken. My mother had died from asthma. It had just taken 75 years of adrenaline shots, straining for air and, unfortunately, unfiltered Camels, for her heart to finally give out. She developed asthma at a very young age in the lit- tle coal-mining town of Pineville, Kentucky. None of today's asthma drugs were around and no one knew the dangers of tobacco.

As a child growing up, I cried while watch- ing Mom gasp for air. Her eyes were wide with fright. The last thing I wanted was to "catch" asthma. I worried that it could be passed on.

I was in my 50s when it happened. I thought I had escaped, but I hadn't. Who can say what awoke the family asthma gene in me,

but something did. The pack of cigarettes a day I had smoked from the age of 25 could not have helped. However, it could have been Scottsdale, Arizona's "100-year flood." I had heard about it since I had moved there in 1979: "Sometime during each century Scottsdale will experience a great flood." That day came, somewhat unfairly I thought since, at the time, I had only lived in Scottsdale for 18 months. The rain came down too fast and too long for the natural desert washes to carry the water away. My sunken living room flooded and the

carpeting stayed soaked for days, molding while I waited for the insurance claims adjuster to arrive. The air smelled funny, a stinging, musty odor. Could this smell have jump-started my asthma?

I awoke in the middle of the night on the fifth night of the flood, my lungs straining for air. The veins in my neck were enlarged with the effort to breathe. A gag seemed to be over my mouth with just one tiny pinhole through which to breathe. Each measly breath seemed to fill my diminishing lung space and soon there would be no space left. I knew I was dying.

My wife rushed me to the emergency room. It was infuriating; no one there seemed concerned. I was just another guy on a gurney. My next breath would be my last, and the nurse was waiting for my wife to complete the forms, I thought, guaranteeing payment for handling the body.

Finally, the emergency room staff treated me for what I feared most--asth- ma! The albuterol administered with a nebuliz- er cost me $300. I would have paid anything for the relief that medicine brought me. A week later I would visit the ER again and then again. I finally had to face the terrible truth: I wasn't going to get over IT! I made an appointment

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with a pulmonary special- ist.

A quick-tempered nurse yelled at me to "PUSH, PUSH, PUSH" my breath through a plas- tic hose that I was told was a measuring device. After a 20-minute wait, there was a rush of a white frock entering and in 90 seconds it was over. The doctor had gone through the menu for asthmatics. Over the next several months he tried me out on strange-sound- ing pills and inhalers. My medical bills worked their way up to two, three and then four thousand dol- lars. I quickly transferred some stock into a couple of pharmaceutical companies for financial help.

Six months and then a year went by, and still no improvement. I changed doctors, but nothing changed. I was continually breathing badly and having a severe episode at least twice a month. But there was some positive news. I got my own nebulizer to use at home; at least I was avoiding the ER. With this initial taste of having some personal control, I decided to take things further in this direct ion--I decided to take steps to take control of my illness.

The first step, and the toughest, was giving up smoking. The added benefit, I convinced myself, was that it would be cheaper and my wife would have more money left over to give me a nice funeral. I called a halt to 30 years of smoking.

Over the next five years I experimented

read the full page of fine print following the asthma drug adver- tisements. I discovered new options. My doc- tor would listen to me and was accommodat- ing with his prescrip- tions. Inhaled corticos- teroids turned out to be the magic bullet. Once I started using them I was able to reduce my dependence on prednisone (an oral steroid). This contin- ued until I was finally off of prednisone for the first time in eight years. I monitored my use of the inhaled cor- ticosteroids, then

reducing it to the lowest dose that was still effective. I carry an albuterol inhaler with me at all times and use it at the first sign of trouble, no matter how slight. I have a small battery- powered nebulizer that I carry with me when- ever I leave the house-- i t acts as my security blanket.

These are my learned therapeutic practices, and knowing what helps, helps. I have control. I have not had a major asthma episode in over a year. I have not had to use my nebulizer in over a year and have not had an urgent doctor's visit for asthma in over five years. Am I cured? No, but I am living a normal life. Asthma is not controlling me, I am controlling it.

- - Richard Stephens

further with pills and inhalers. I changed doc- tors one more time and then stuck with him. I kept a comprehensive chart o f my medication : ~ r i d g e Stre~ : use and my symptoms. I read everything about : : : : : : N e w t o n , ~ 0 2 4 5 8 :: asthma that I could get my hands on; I even

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