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Warning: whingey fed-up blog post follows, brought to you by six weeks of not being able to breathe easily.

My name is Nicola, I am 38 years old, and I’m asthmatic. You can’t see the asthma, there’s no cloud or warning sign hanging over my head. I prefer not to wear the t-shirt, because I don’t need your preconceptions. I hate letting asthma stop me doing anything I want to do (this can end badly), so I’m damned if you’re going to stop me either. You may not recognise my symptoms (life isn’t like an episode of Casualty, asthma doesn’t always mean noisy laboured wheezing), or realise the impact they have on my life.

Most of the time, I’m very well indeed, thank you very much. You won’t see me sucking on a ventolin inhaler (I don’t think I used it once through September or the first half of October), because I work extremely hard to keep my asthma controlled. I eat healthily, sleep sufficiently, exercise moderately, take preventer drugs religiously, and try to avoid triggers. The last six weeks or so, it’s all gone horribly wrong, for some reason, and my asthma control is fecked, and I’m at the end of my tether, because I hate how restricted my life is.

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-It’s not being able to make yourself heard in a roomful of people, because you can’t take a deep enough breath to project your voice. Or finish your sentence. So someone finishes it for you.

-It’s waking up, night after night.

-It’s feeling constantly exhausted, because every breath, every activity has taken that extra bit of effort. Imagine you’re blowing up a balloon. A whole partyful of balloons. Imagine trying to do that whilst walking up a hill, on a cold day. Imagine every breath’s like that. All day long.

-It’s sitting on the sofa, looking at the filthy state of the carpet, but knowing you’re incapable of hoovering.

-It’s catching sight of your reflection as you walk past a window, and not recognising that woman with the stooped shoulders, walking at someone else’s pace.

-It’s having such bad handshake from too much ventolin that you can’t hit the right buttons on the PIN machine. And not having the breath to explain why. Or the energy to care what people are thinking.

-It’s wondering whether you really were that person who could run 5k.

Before anyone nags, I’m off to the doctor. Again. In search of the holy grail of better asthma control. Or possibly a plane ticket to a better climate.

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6 Comments

Filed under a little bit mad

6 responses to “restricted

  1. *sends oral steroids*
    *follows up with gin*

  2. dawn

    Ask for a referal to the chest clinic to see a specialist.
    And many many hugs and much sympathy from one who’s been there done that and at the moment is amazed she’s able to breathe ok what with it being winter.
    I was talking to the medic who trains the West Yorks police (or used to) and he said he used to give them all one of the very narrow drinking straws that you get with cartons and then get them to run for 2mins while breathing through it – they began to get some idea of what it’s like.

  3. Annabel

    Poor you! *Hugs*

  4. katherinea

    I hope you can get back on top of it soon. It sounds crap.

  5. Liz

    *hugs* Glad you’re going to the doctor and hope they can help you to get it sorted.

  6. Hugs. its crappy! It’s a long way to come but apparently the doctor I’ve just been referred to at Kings is the bees knees and takes national referrals.

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