Before going for a jog, I go to take a hit of albuterol from my inhaler and realize I’m out. The number on the back of the canister reads 0 in red. Zero you’re dead. Fuck. I don’t have a doctor in New York, and I haven’t visited my creepy allergy/asthma specialist since before Miley Cyrus got naked. I could call CVS, but I already know it would only result in pointless frustration.
A brilliant idea comes to me and the more I think about it, the more brilliant it becomes. I will cure myself of asthma by training my lungs to relax without the help of drugs.
Have you seen The Revenant? The human body is incredibly resilient. Mind over matter. There were no inhalers or nebulizers in the ancient times; coincidentally there were no weak, sniffling asthmatics. Or maybe they just died. Whatever. I’m confident this will work; I can feel it in my heart, my chest, my soul, my veins.
During the run I start to feel a familiar tightness, so I have to stop after only ten minutes. When I breathe, I sound like a fucking tea kettle. I’m not discouraged though. Everything is hard in the beginning. Nothing good comes easy. Just watch and see.
This time next month, asthma will be a distant memory. I will think back on my pathetic days of relying on a sad, man-made aerosol device to breathe and I will laugh. It will be the most full-bodied, jolly-rich-man, wheeze-free laugh you’ve ever fucking heard, let me tell you. I can do anything I put my mind to. LOL.