Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

The Last Attack

By Wayne Levine

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept

me

from having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods,

most

plants, trees, grass and flowers. And keeping a pet - especially a dog or a

cat

- was completely out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed:

I

needed to avoid everything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the

doctor every Saturday morning for my weekly allergy shot.

" Do not exert yourself, " he told me. " It will probably trigger a

dangerous

asthma attack. "

Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my

bike

like a demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I

became

the top gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50-, 60- and 100-yard

dash

records. At eleven, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the

allergy shots each week - a subjective decision based not on information I

read

in any book, nor on the advice of any experts. Rather, my body told me I

didn't

need them anymore.

My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. " We'll see how

you

do without them, " they said.

But I wasn't through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to

get

a dog - a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love - and I began to immerse

myself in all the things that used to make me sick (or had been told would

make

me sick). I cut the grass for neighbors who didn't know I wasn't supposed

to be

near lawns. I smelled flowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat

strawberries, which doctors said " could possibly be fatal. "

I don't remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my

last. I

was eleven years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was

running hard through the African jungle - in reality, the alleys behind our

house. There were many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun.

Sometimes while running, especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell

and

squeeze off my air supply. That day was no different. Reluctantly, I

decided

to leave the jungle and return home to rest.

The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed,

quiet

focus. In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.

As I lay on my parents' bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the

shiny silver bolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what

seemed

like the still point in the center of the fan's great vortex and held my

attention there, while listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard

the

rapid, rhythmic crackling sounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high

pitched

whistles, which marked the trail of the few puffs of air struggling to make

their way through narrow passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to

my

body.

Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life

forever: a

simple thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I

understood, for the first time, that the little bit of air getting through

was

all that was necessary to sustain me. It was enough. When I realized I

have

nothing to fear, I will always have enough air, my lungs opened fully.