The Salt Room
I have had asthma all my life. It’s genetic. My childhood was filled with weekly allergy injections—first three each time, then two, many of them given by an allergist in New York City who must hold the world’s record for speedy shots. (He also pioneered hypnotherapy for breathing problems; I still remember the treatments.) I also have plenty of memories of being rushed to the doctor for adrenalin injections during attacks. After years of relative calm, just a few years ago I had an attack that was so severe that I thought I might not see the other side of it.
Fortunately, I made it into work somehow after a sleepless night of struggling for breath—an experience I wouldn’t wish on anybody—and it turned out that my co-worker, who also unfortunately suffers from asthma, had her prescription inhaler with her. Two inhalations later, I was able to breathe normally once more. The only thing that kept me from weeping with sheer relief was my reluctance to embarrass myself any further in front of of my co-workers.
I got a prescription for the inhaler my co-worker uses the very next day.