Wheezy Come, Wheezy Go
THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH IN JULY 2008.
I’ve never been one to run to the doctor’s at the first sign of a
sneeze. In fact, I could manage for years without going near the place.
But now a reluctant trip to the surgery has given me a new lease of
life. After years of assuming that the wheezing and coughing that I’ve
intermittently experienced was part of the allergies from which I’ve
suffered since I was a baby, I was beginning to suspect there was
something else going on.
Occasionally, you see, the coughing would result in puffing, and louder
wheezing, and a breathing pattern that would run away with itself. If
I’d been honest with myself, I’d have realised that these “dos” were
triggered, not just by exposure to pollen, but by a range of other
things like traffic fumes, wet paint and cigarette smoke.
But a long-standing, if irrational, fear of the doctor’s had helped
convince me that, even if I did have the condition I suspected – asthma –
then I could look after it myself. Besides, I was doing the NHS a
favour by not placing a further burden on its already creaking system.
In its 60 years, the guardian of our healthcare has remained largely the
pride of the nation, but in many ways it’s been a victim of its own
success: more people cured means more people around to need other
treatment. In truth, of course, I was being far from altruistic. I’ve
inherited my paternal grandmother’s anxiety about doctors. She would
probably have removed her own appendix if she’d had to.
Two months ago, matters were taken out of my hands when I had what
turned out to be a proper asthma attack in front of assembled loved
ones. With witnesses, I knew I could avoid the doctor no longer. Once my
appointment was made, I managed to fill in the intervening three hours
winding myself up into a panic. What if I was wrong? What if my
extensive trawl of the internet had failed to reveal some terrible
disease? I could have Blackwater Fever, Ross River virus, or some other
dreadful illness.
Of course, I am a typical victim of the information age. Inundated with
medical information from television dramas and documentaries, the
internet and newspapers, I daren’t even look at health articles in
women’s magazines. Because, less than 24 hours after reading the symptom
checklists, I’ll have developed four or five of them. This time,
despite my legs wanting to walk in another direction, I made it to the
surgery.
And there’s really nothing like sitting in front of a doctor to make you
face the truth: which was that I struggled so much, and so often, that I
automatically avoided spending much time outdoors, taking long walks,
or doing anything very active when the pollen count was high or the wind
blustery. Without realising it, I was missing out on many of the things
I’d previously loved.
After a detailed consultation, measuring my peak flow each day, trials
of anti-asthma drugs, and a couple more visits to the doctor, my amateur
diagnosis was confirmed: I officially have asthma.
Initially, I felt much better just knowing what was wrong. I did
research and became an asthma bore to everyone who made the mistake of
asking how I was. Then I had a wobble. I started to worry that I had
become one of those characters in Victorian children’s fiction: the
invalid weakling cousin forced to spend her days indoors. Of course,
this picture is entirely outdated. Modern treatments, ironically many pioneered in my hometown, mean that most of this country’s eight million
sufferers can live almost normal lives. For me, it’s transformed the way
I feel, live and act.
Rather than being the one hiding indoors, I’m now the one suggesting
meals in the garden, walks to the supermarket, even trips to flower
shows. I curse myself for not going to the doctor’s much sooner. Because
yes, having asthma is scary. Yes, it can be debilitating. But in all
likelihood it can be easily controlled – you just have to respect it and
then you can go on living.