…is a beautiful thing.  You forget how wonderful it really is until you can’t do it anymore.

I’ve had asthma since I was born, so I’m not really sure how it is that I should be breathing, but I know that some times are easier than others.  Throughout my early childhood, I was in and out of the hospital in oxygen tents, with breathing treatments at least three times a day, and bronchitis and pneumonia being a yearly thing.  But for the past 18 years or so, I’ve been pretty good at the whole normal thing, with the exception of a major attack when I was about 17.  Last week I upset my record with a 5-day-long attack.

When I finally got to the doctor on Friday (after days of my mother pleading with me), she gave me an in-house treatment which only revealed how bad off I really was (i.e. the medicine made me worse).  So let’s see how many drugs we can pump into me, shall we?  Turns out, I can take 3x daily breathing treatments (again), the highest does of Advair possible (2x), oral steroids, inhaler, and whatever I was already taking. 

Basically I appear to be walking around on a coffee drip, minus the added energy (which was supposed to be a side effect of the meds…where’s my energy!?!).  My mom thinks I look like I’m on speed.  I’ve also heard my person referred to as shaking like an old man with Parkinson’s. 

It’s pretty bad, folks. 

But fear not.  Jane will not leave you.  In fact, I’m planning on feeling 100x better this week, assuming my body will cooperate.  I just need to get through this bout of ridiculosity (yes, it is a word, I say) and then I’ll be back to being driven crazy by library patrons (wait, that’s happening right now…), homework, and writing occasionally interesting but mostly crap blog posts for your viewing pleasure.

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