Respiro: My Asthmatic Memoir

March 28, 2023

Modern-Day Asthmatic Me !

Any modern-day asthmatic understands the severity of a Bad Asthma Day, or at least that’s what I’ve been calling them these past several years, decades really. If it’s your son or daughter who’s struggling, you’ve heard your pediatrician describe it in her dictation as “Patient presenting with severe asthmatic episode.” It all starts to sound like the screenplay of your new sci-fi TV series boldly entitled, “Asthma Attacks!”, starring Ralph Macchio as Dr. Dare who’s going to karate-kick Asthma’s ass R-I-G-H-T out of this hemisphere! By day, Dr. Dare spends countless hours in the lab cooking up a pharmacopeia concoction that can jump-start a pair of lungs and return you to your regularly-scheduled, easier-breathing life. By night, he dons his long, purple cape and becomes every childhood asthmatic’s SuperHero: Captain Inhaler or Captain I as he’s known by his adoring fans in every pediatric pulmonary ward in America. Through the veil of your oxygen tent at Children’s Hospital, you might just catch a glimpse of Captain I as he flies past your window releasing plumes ’n’ fumes of magic dust from his SuperInhaler!

“Bienvenidos a Southwest” by Freddie Diaz

Every Detroit-born asthmatic knows that you have to have a pretty good sense of humor in order to survive in this town, especially with the double whammy of being born Brown and Asthmatic or “Brasthmatic,” as I sometimes self-refer. ( I use to tell my wife that if she ever left me, my personal ad would read: “Husky, Hispanic-Asthmatic seeks same!” I digress.) Detroit’s air quality is infamously toxic and has been since the first Marathon refinery opened in Detroit in 1930. So, it’s no surprise asthma is the leading chronic cause of school absenteeism in Detroit.** I missed so many days of Kindergarten.

Looking back ….

My head and heart wander back to an autumn day in downtown Detroit, 56 years ago, where a chubby, little five-year-old asthmatic me, Ruben, is happily running back and forth across the grassy fields of Belle Isle, in my blue Keds. I see Vivienne and Roy, my parents, sitting on the blanket, laughing and talking to each other, busy tuning the transistor radio and hearing the jingle blaring:“CKLW , the Motor City !” The wind catches my kite and I chase it up and down and over the grass and around the picnic tables and my joy is boundless. Until I can’t breathe. I don’t see my father and mother running to help me as the kite billows away, over the Detroit River, and beyond. I wake up in the hospital hours later, in an oxygen tent with the strangest sight I’d ever witnessed in my life: both of my parents, one on each side of me, each of them holding one of my hands, staring at me, and whispering over and over :

Mijo ( my son),

Mijo (my son),

My mother, crying, and Dad, staring at the tile floor.

No. Asthma attacks are not inherently funny. The double entendre of “asthma attacks” is not lost on me. There is nothing comical about a young child gasping for air and finding none and parents watching, helpless. I get that. Did that. Felt that. Lived that sadness. But, I can’t help but wonder if it was, indeed, Captain Inhaler who kicked asthma’s ass that day in Detroit, on that urban island, and brought my parents together in that bizarre moment of magic.

Chapter Two: How Frozen Tacos Can Melt Your Heart & Heal Asthma!

(These are actually Flautas. My gandpa’s taquitos looked like miniature tacos!)

Autumn 1966 : Kindergarten, Bennet Elementary, Detroit, Michigan.

Asthma and I were best buds since the day I was born. This is not an exaggeration, just a fact. Winter to Spring brought allergies, but left the bitter cold behind. Spring to Summer brought intense heat that hung on my body and pressed, like a weight, on my chest. Summer to Fall was a blessing because the heat let up and the cooler mornings gave me the chance to wear my favorite red sweater with a silver snap over the pocket. But it was the Fall to Winter transition that was always the hardest on me. It was like my lungs were squeezing air out of me rather than into me. Breathing was an exhausting struggle and some days my wheezing was so bad that we’d have to drive to Allen Park and see my pediatrician, Dr. Jones, for a steroid shot that would open my lungs, get that air flowing and wipe me out physically!

It was on these tough Autumn asthma days where Mom would scramble to find a babysitter, so last-minute that it was next-to-impossible . Mom reluctantly picked up the phone and dialed one last number: Grandpa Garcia . From my bottom bunk, I could hear mom in the kitchen explaining the situation:

“Hey Dad . Ruben’s sick again and Rosemary’s not answering her phone .Dora Belle’s on a ride-along with Russell and his rig all this week and Granny Barnes’ bunions are killing her, she can’t walk. Can Ruben sit with you today? He’s quiet. Give him his cough syrup and he’ll probably sleep most of the day. It’s just his asthma.” Mom put the receiver down and began layering me up with a sweater, a hideous yellow dickey that looks like someone knitted a sweater but forgot to make the sleeves and the body, a scarf and a heavy jacket. And it was only late October.

……..

Standing on the porch, holding mom’s right hand, the front door at 4449 Grindley Park swings open and Grandpa Joe’s big, bright smile finds me . I smile too. His arms hold me and I remember feeling his scratchy cheeks, his grey and black stubble gently piercing my face. Grandpa’s house was quiet except for the radio. Grandpa was singing, “Cucurrucucu Paloma” along with Lola Beltran on Detroit’s WJLB radio. It was funny hearing Grandpa sing this song with Lola, a famous Mexican singer. I was use to hearing my Grandma sing it all by herself, usually while she was cooking enchiladas, the smell of onions and mole sauce in the air. This time it was Grandpa mimicking the white dove. “Cucurrucucu,” they called, Lola and Grandpa, his arms motioning up toward the sky and winking at me sitting at the formica table.

….

Asthma wears you out, man. It takes all your strength to just do the basic in-and-out of daily breaths. I fell asleep on the floral print couch and felt a soft tap on my shoulder. Grandpa whispered, “Ruben, are you hungry?”

I was always hungry as a kid. Everyone in my family knew my love of food , all kinds of food. Flour tortillas with butter. Stuffed cabbage and dill pickle soup. Enchiladas with extra mole. Doughnuts from Mr. Donut , Sanders’ dunkers, and cinnamon rolls from Qwikee Donuts in downtown Detroit. Of course I was hungry!

From my warm spot on the couch, I nodded, “Yes,” to Grandpa’s question and wondered what he had planned for lunch. I heard a bunch of noise from the kitchen: the freezer door opening and the oven door opening, too. And then I saw Grandpa’s eyes go wide when he opened a box and began placing, one by one, little half-moon shaped things on a cookie sheet.

I got up off the couch, rubbed my eyes and walked over to the kitchen.

“Grandpa, what are you making?”

Grandpa Joe looked up at me: “Taquitos, corazon!” ( Little tacos, my love).

Just hearing Grandpa’s voice say: “Taquitos, corazon” felt like a summons, a call to me, just like the paloma cooing, “Cucurrucucu,” in hopes of finding his lost love.

Grandpa and I finished lining up all the taquitos in four long rows of deliciousness.

Grandpa pushed the tray gently into the oven and put the timer on. Helping Grandpa in the kitchen wore me out and Grandpa could tell. He took my hand and walked me over to the couch and tucked me back into my spot with my pillow and blanket.

“Da me un pico, Grandpa,” I said , closing my eyes and waiting. “Give me a kiss, Grandpa,” I said.

Grandpa kissed my cheek and patted my head.

I fell asleep to the smell of little tacos, Taquitos, cooking in the oven with Grandpa nearby, waiting.

I lifted my head without opening my eyes:

“Grandpa, don’t forget to wake me up when the the tacos are done.”

I fell asleep hearing :

“Taquitos, corazon.”

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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