Color Me Sensitive

By this time, I was growing more ill. I had great anxiety walking up a flight of stairs. A flight of five stairs scared me. Ten sent me into a panic. I would ascend the stairs, counting silently in my head. My stomach would go into frenzy if someone were coming up behind me for I would have to move that much faster to let him or her get by. Either way, by the time I reached the top, I would have to stop and lean against the wall, my eyes closed.

Many, many times I felt close to what I believed was death. I could almost feel myself passing out, my knees giving way. I tried to relax and draw air into my lungs. Closing my eyes, I quickly prayed, "Please, please don't let me go this way." Within a few seconds, I'd find enough air and strength to continue on.

If my children were with me, I would whisper to them, "Slow down," or "Stop with me at the top of the stairs." Wesley, now five years old, understood what I was feeling. Together, we would make it seem as though we had stopped for some other reason than that I couldn't breathe. Even in these moments, my lack of self-esteem allowed me to internalize this struggle in a negative way. I should not have cared if anyone saw me physically challenged. Yet I didn't want anyone to snicker and feel that my struggles were due to my weight.

Within a year of my diagnosis, I was coughing continuously. Most times, the coughing was uncontrollable. I became conscious of looks people gave me—as if they wondered if I was suffering from tuberculosis or some other contagious disease. I didn't blame them; I might have felt the same had it been someone else. If I spoke, a cough would emerge like an adjective in every sentence. If I were seeking peace and quiet, it was the annoying neighbor's child who kept yelling for no reason.

Nothing seemed to calm it... until late at night. Mysteriously every night, for a long time, I would begin a bout of coughing punctuated by vomiting. Mucus would release from my body with a vengeance, as if my lungs were beating up an enemy and forcing it out of my body yelling, "That's enough! Stop coughing. I'm tired, you S.O.B. I'm tired!!"

After 15 to 20 minutes, my face wet with perspiration and tears streaming from my eyes, I would lay limp on the bathroom floor... tired from coughing all day and vomiting all night. But I was grateful it had stopped. I wasn't coughing. At least for a while. Maybe just a little through the night while I tried to sleep. Then, like clockwork, I coughed through the day until I lay limp on the floor at night. This was my life for a long time.