Gasping

When the dangerous lies you're told about yourself become the lies you tell yourself.

I’ve always been unfit. For as long as I can remember, and probably before that.

When I was at primary school, they would make us run down and up the hill behind the school. My body would burn: my legs, my chest. Heart beating so hard I could feel it throbbing in my head. Breaths dragged in desperately and puffed out quickly, white mist in the frosty air. You’re so unfit. I was always last in the cross country. Trying to keep my footing as I navigated the uneven ground. You’re so unfit. The air smelled of cows and sheep. Who decided our cross country had to happen on a farm?

Whenever my family went tramping up Croesus Track, I would stop often, gasping. You’re so unfit. It seemed like it was never time to rest as I was propelled onwards.

At intermediate, I was convinced to do the 1,200 metre run for athletics day because they didn’t have enough sign-ups. I was a people-pleaser and had no real concept of how far 1,200 metres was to run. I found out. I thought I was going to die. You’re so unfit. I lagged so far behind the other few runners. You’re so unfit. Then, because so few people participated, I automatically qualified for the regionals. The second time was worse.

High school was much the same. The beep test was the worst P.E. day of my life, you’re so unfit, as were any days we’d have to do laps of the gym. You’re so unfit. I started leaving my P.E. gear at home. Then, when I got sick of being punished, I started forging notes from my mother.

I love being outdoors. I wanted to do Outdoor Ed in my senior years. You’re too unfit. I settled for indoor activities.

As an adult, I’ve kept doing hill walks despite them destroying me. My husband and son have learned to go slow; to wait for me as a try catch my breath. I’m so unfit. But both of them are fit without even trying. I’m not. I need to work at it. I’m so unfit. At times I’m doing better than others, but overall I can’t move fast. I’ve gotten good at slowly slogging so I can still be out in nature.

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I mentioned last post I’d been to the doctor. She’d prescribed me meds that worked in a way that had huge implications. Remember?

I went to the doctor because I hadn’t been able to breathe properly for four weeks, since getting some nasty bug at the start of August. My chest was tight and sore, and I had a wheezy cough. The night before I went to see her, I couldn’t catch my breath while lying in bed. It was scary. I don’t often feel afraid to fall asleep, but I did that night.

So I overcame the barriers and mentally prepared for a not fun time at the doctors.

After listening to my rapid rundown of my struggles with breathing, she asked, “do you get asthma?”

“Yeah,” I say, “but this isn’t asthma. Asthma is up here and feels like this,” I gesticulate to explain, “this is down here, and feels like this.” I struggle to find words to explain the sensations.

“Okay, do you have an inhaler?”

“Ventolin. It’s probably expired. I got it when I got Covid the first time back in… umm… you can probably see it in my record. But this isn’t asthma. My asthma always has a clear cause—the last time I got it was the day before I tested positive for Covid the first time. Before that it’s been things like sprinting in the freezing cold to get home out of sudden weather, and having to walk through the noxious smoke of a carpet store fire that one time.” Each incident is inscribed in my memories with key words attached like, ‘terrifying,’ and, ‘ambulance?’

I know asthma. My mum was on multiple asthma inhalers every day. My brother once had an asthma attack so bad they went to take him to hospital because he was turning blue (the hospital was about 25 minutes away, and his breathing came right well before they made it, so they just came home again). My asthma was a rare beast and never life-threatening, just scary.

The doctor looks unconvinced. She listens to my lungs, checks other vitals, makes me breathe into a tube.

She says, “I’m going to prescribe you an inhaler. It’s double action, with a steroid. Use it twice a day. More if needed.”

I was skeptical, but, despite issues I have with her, I figure I may as well try it.

Over the next few days my chest stops to hurt. I generally feel like I can breathe again. I dare to go for a swim, which I hadn’t been able to do for over a month. I puff my inhaler in advance. I hope I don’t drown.

Then the unexpected happens: I swim six lengths without having to stop to catch my breath, easily, at a surprising pace. I have to stop because my arms hurt. That never happens. I always have to stop after a couple of lengths to breathe. I’m bewildered, but I start to wonder. Maybe it’s not that I’m so very unfit?

Because I’m meant to be taking it easy, I can’t test my wonderings immediately. My husband advises caution: “don’t go putting all your eggs in one basket.”

My breathing in general was still unpredictable—two weeks later a walk round the block with a friend left me completely breathless. Walking + talking + the cold air; it was too much despite the level ground and shortness of the walk. I tell my friend, as I’m gasping, “I’m wondering if I’ve actually always had asthma.”

She’s a nurse, and simply says, “probably.” She also explains how the inhaler helps, and encourages me to keep using it as prescribed. Both a good friend and a good nurse.

Then the weekend before last, Husband, Son and I went for a hill walk. Harry Ell Track: one of the less steep ones. I realised it had been an age since we’d done a hill walk. We hadn’t been up to the Port Hills summit since before the Valentine’s Day fire at the start of this year.

Fun side-note: most of the walks in Ōtautahi go from the bottom of the Port Hills up to the summit. There are many options and over the last ten years we have done many of them of varying difficulty. My favourite is Halswell Quarry Rim walk, which doesn’t go up to the summit, just across the top of the hill half quarried for the rock you can see throughout the city. But it’s a steep track and destroys me every time, even when I feel like I’m fitter. My son’s favourite track is Rāpaki, which is steep and long and I hate it. I also hate it’s his favourite because it means we’ve had to do it more.

Back to the story: despite it being an age since I’ve done a hill walk, I was hopeful. I don’t tend to consider Harry Ell ‘hard.’ We’ve done much harder. But I do expect to struggle, and maybe even to have to turn back early. I’m meant to be taking it easy after all.

I used my inhaler before leaving, and put it in my backpack just in case. I walked. I could breathe. It wasn’t hard. We got to the top without me struggling much or having to go at a snail’s pace. My calves were a little, ‘oh, we’re doing this walking upwards thing,’ but they were content. It was weird⏤and also weirdly windy at the top.

After a toilet stop at Sign of the Kiwi, and Son declining ice-cream (topping off the weirdness trifecta), Husband decided we should tiki tour down a different way—he needs significantly more variety in his life than I do. So we cut along Thomsons Track. As we hit the trees I noticed that, while I wasn’t gasping, I was wheezing a little. We paused. I used my inhaler. We continued, and before long I could breathe easy again.

At the end of Thomsons Track, there’s a steep incline up to the carpark on Summit Road. Ah, there it was! The burn of the legs. The heavy breathing. It’s steep, and I haven’t been out much, I remind myself. I am unfit. But my legs hurt more than my chest, and I wasn’t wheezing.

The walk downhill was steep, hurt my knees, but we got back to the carpark without further issues.

I went home with knowledge: it’s been asthma the whole time.

I’m not that unfit. I never was.

This makes way more sense logically. I was very active growing up. If I could be out of the house, I was. We were always swimming, roaming, scrambling up and down the hill (we lived on a plateau, so could scramble down hill/cliff sides to the north, east and south). I walked to school and back till I went to school in town. I spent a significant amount of time hauling coal and wood. There were animals to feed, a dog to walk. Then, when I left home, we didn’t have a car for about 12 years, so I walked or biked everywhere (mostly walked, I am not good on a bike).

Now I’m able to rewrite my story about my fitness. All that gasping and chest pain, it wasn’t a sign of my lack of fitness like I was told. All those times I was berated, all the times I berated myself, it was a lie. I was taught that what I was feeling was just evidence that I was too lazy, didn’t push myself enough, needed to do more cardio.

That saying, “the truth will set you free¹,” feels so true right now. I have asthma. I have treatment.

I’m looking forward to having time to go to Halswell Quarry, just to see how it goes.²

I’m looking forward to adventures with my family and my friends.

I’m looking forward to being able to breathe.

View from Harry Ell Track looking out over the Adventure Park. You can see some of the damage of the February fire.; it raged for days and started a fair way away from this hillside. It’s likely the yellow is flowering broom, but it could be gorse⏤both are introduced weeds.

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1. I know it’s not really a saying: it’s a Jesus quote in the Bible.

2. This post sat in my drafts for longer than intended. Yesterday, Son and I went to Halswell Quarry. It was so windy I was completely overwhelmed with all the sensations, and couldn’t get a sense of why I was struggling to breathe. There were many possibilities: the chilly wind, the exertion of the steep walk, asthma. I’m unsure. Maybe all of the above. My poor interoception and easily overwhelmed sensory system makes this process really hard.