MY steps were quick and deliberate. Beads of sweat rolled from my crown down to my neck. It was seven thirty in the morning. People were on a huff either to get to work or students going to school. I refused to make eye contact with anyone. I couldn't be bothered, I needed to finish my daily 2-kilometer brisk walk.
Catching my breath on the sidewalk, I paused and took a sip from my Hydro Flask, when an awkward-looking girl in a school uniform bumped into me by accident.
“I’m so, sorry Miss”, her hands held out in front of her like she was in a defensive stance.
“It’s fine, it was an accident. Just be careful next time” I said, assuring her I was okay.
"I’m really really sorry", she kept bowing her head.
“I said It’s fine, go run you'll be late” I smiled.
“Thank you” She gave me an apologetic smile and a small bow then turned to walk away.
I stood there watching until she turned to the curve and disappeared.
She reminded me so much of my young self. I was always very apologetic, always asking for an apology even if it wasn't my fault.
Back in college, an average-looking girl like me doesn't really have anything much to offer. I was an above-average student and that was just about it. I never get chosen to stand in front of a presentation nor get chosen to compete in a beauty and brain contest. I was invisible. Needless to say, I needed to go the extra mile to gain the approval of my peers.
It was exactly 30 years ago when I had my first taste of cigarettes. It was awful. It was bitter and stank my breath. There was nothing good in it except that after the first puff, the door opened for me to be a part of the cool girls' clique. The group of popular girls was loud, fun to be with, bold, smart, and fashionable. This group was friends with all the Professors. Everybody wants to be associated with them, hence being a part of the group was a privilege that a few, including myself, got to be a part of. I never regretted it. I had the best college life. But smoking became a habit that I couldn't shake
Fast forward many years later. I was talking to my sister over the phone--we were exchanging stories about our kids who were in high school. We were laughing but then I got distracted by the cracking sound at the end of my breath. It was not wheezing like most asthmatics have, it sounded more like that of a powdered candy that pops inside your mouth as soon as it gets wet with your spit.
My Asthma is back, I told myself. Plus the fact that I had a hyperthyroidism condition around that time, might have aggravated my condition. I shrugged it off and expected it to go away in a few days.
After more than a week, the crackles in my lungs did not go away. I decided to cut down my ciggy from an average of seven sticks a day to three. Cutting down the number of cigarettes was a good start but I was stuck to it, I never made any progress. I was still a smoker. I realized that to give it up fully was something I wasn't ready for. Conceding to my shortcomings, I decided to make up for it by exercising regularly.
I sat on a curb to tighten my shoelace. The spilled water on my shirt had dried a bit. I noticed the skin on my legs had turned slightly brown due to regular sun exposure. I felt my damp skin-- it was warm. I had been walking for forty-five minutes already and I felt my muscles tighten.
It had been 2 months since I decided to walk. I still have the crackles in my breath, and worse, I think I have developed depression.
Turning my gaze to my right where an unfinished chapel stood. It was in an instant that a voice inside me spoke.
"God, please heal me. You know that I've tried countless times. I'm weak and I can't do it on my own. Today, I give up everything to you".
And as simple as that. I surrendered everything to the mightiest power.
"Do you smoke"? The pulmonologist asked while pressing the chest piece on my back.
"Yes, on and off for 25 years now" I lied.
"You have Emphysema" he declared, helping himself to his swivel chair.
The only word I heard was EMPHYSEMA, everything else was incomprehensible, meaningless words. In the middle of the chaos inside my mind, I was there anticipating to hear the words, "You are dying in...."
"Isn't this a chronic disease Doc?" I gathered all my courage to look composed.
"It is, but you can keep it from getting worse if you quit smoking now". He said, still smiling. The way the words rolled out of his mouth–they were reassuring but they couldn't penetrate the thick air of fear enveloping my whole being.
This is the same disease that killed "Spock", my favorite Star Trek character, and one of Amy Winehouse's many illnesses that killed her too.
How many years do I have Left? My brain was full of uncertainty. How can doctors actually manage to smile while giving you the dreadful news? My stomach felt like it was being squeezed and the muscles in my arms seemed to have turned jelly.
"Take this bronchodilator twice a day. Spray, inhale, hold it for a few seconds then release". He wrote down the instructions and handed me the prescription where his name was printed in Lucida Handwriting font. He suggested that on my next visit, I should take a shot of some sort of medication specifically for those with COPD like me.
Dr. Devol looked like he was in his mid-thirties. Three years? Four years? Definitely not more than five years of medical practice. There was a good chance that he could be wrong. These thoughts would play all day inside my head. The thought would comfort me and help me to function normally during the day but at night the terrifying thoughts like dying from the disease would haunt me.
The selfless me decided not to be transparent about my distress. My husband had no idea what emotional turmoil I had been dealing with. Looking for ways to cope I turned to journal writing. I wrote like I was writing a progress report to a higher authority, seeking approval for all that I have been doing. I submitted myself to the idea that I was answerable to this imaginary being that I constantly had to impress just like how I wanted to impress the President of the company I used to work for.
At the end of my daily entry, I would write a small prayer, asking God if I was on the right track, and if I was not, I asked him to nudge me, hold my hands, and lead me to where I was supposed to be.
The morning sun was biting on my naked skin. I wiped the sweat off with a small towel I was carrying in my belt bag. It was I sat on the concrete bench at the chapel ground marveling at the massive progress it's been making. The image of Jesus standing near the entrance I looked and I turned to my wrist to check the time, dots of perspiration reflected the light. It was twelve past eight. I needed to hurry home before hubby left for work, It wasn't something he asked me to do it was a self-imposed duty for a "good wife".
My phase was faster than when I started. The pressure of keeping the role as a wife and taking care of myself placed a huge pressure. My eyes turned misty as I kept my stride quick. I wiped a tear before it could fall. When I looked at my path, my gaze was met by a disabled man seated in a wheelchair.
"You're doing good," he said without opening his mouth.
That voice that only my mind could hear caused the hairs on my arms to rise and like a wave, it crept all over my body.
I knew it was God's voice.
The reassuring feeling that washed over after it was the sign. He must have found me so stubborn that I never really sought for his voice that's why he looked for someone to carry his words for me.
I openly wept and took my guard down naked from inhibitions. I felt small for God's attention. I felt I wasn't worthy but he did come for me.
He was here. He was with me all the while.
I sat on the OPD waiting for my name to be called. As I approached the medical secretary,
"Good morning Ma'am, I am sorry to tell you that Dr. Devol isn't holding clinic today, instead another Pulmonologist is here to take on his patients.
I entered the clinic, feeling a little off because I needed to tell the new Doc about my condition.
Hi, how are we today? So what's your condition? She asked simultaneously
Good morning Doc, I have Emphysema.
She leaned back surprised. "But you look too young to have it.
have you had a chest x-ray? How about Spirometry? She asked without blinking.
I shook my head, confused. None of those were performed before I was diagnosed.
Dr. Cristina wrote down the requests and sent me off to schedule the x-ray and the breathing test.
A week later, I came back with the results. Dr. Cristina looked at them one by one then laid all the papers in front of me.
"I told you. You're too young to have Emphysema. All your tests showed your lungs are normal".
I almost wailed in relief. The tears in my eyes were welling.
"What you have is inflammation, and there are meds for that". She handed me the prescription.
I walked out of that clinic, a new person that day. I believed in God more than I had ever.
Dr. Devol's diagnosis was erroneous. I could hate him for that because he caused me misery, but I figured that God used him too. Maybe God told him to misdiagnose me, to scare me.
That misdiagnosis traumatized me but it's also the reason why I successfully quit smoking.
That happened seven years ago.
Since then, not a single stick, not a single puff. I have totally given up the addiction I carried for almost thirty years.
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