Struggling for Breath

Struggling for Breath
          The siren screamed across the field as the ambulance wobbled toward our place up north. I was surprised by this, startled out of the state of semi-consciousness that I had entered. Why was there an ambulance so close to the house? Why had I fallen asleep again? My nose had been bleeding, and I felt so sleepy. “Oh, well,” I thought and drifted away again.
          Soon my mom was shaking me awake. “Sweetie, the ambulance is here for you. They’re going to put a mask on your face so that you can breathe.” I felt relief as the man with the crinkly eyes covered my mouth with a plastic cover. I could breathe, and the world became more acute, the lamp outlined with clarity, the lines on the ceiling in sharp focus.
          On the way to the hospital, my mom held my hand. Her fingers were damp, and she bit her lip. Why was I here? At six years old, I hardly had a sense of the forces that were carrying me along. A day of playing with kittens in a moldy basement, a day where my dad had decided to do some spray painting—all of this added up to an unprecedented reaction. My little body was on overload—and my bloody nose, throbbing head, wheezing breath and sleepy self were all a testament to the violent response to too much stimulus.
          After days in the hospital and a year of low school attendance, I developed a certain resolve. How could I conquer this ridiculous problem? At thirteen I grew tired of the handicap that had stood in my way since I was six. I began to run, began to take control. I read books on running, learned the best ways to warm up, to cool down, to push myself further. I began to run slowly, but eventually it became a way to control my illness and my fear. Running track and cross country changed my life, and I run to this day.
          Sometimes when I’m running, the sound of an ambulance will take me back to that sad little girl who can’t breathe. I ran away from her long ago.