The First Attack

CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRST ATTACK


It started as a vague irritation just below my throat, but the more I continued to scamper about on my two and a half year old legs, the more this constriction forced it’s unwelcome attention upon me. I sat down on the wooden floorboards, an involuntary reflex action, and as I sat there I appeared to improve. I could still feel the discomfort but it had become more bearable. Pleased, I scrambled to my feet but immediately started to gasp for breath. I became frightened and started to cry but knew better than to bawl. Hot tears of fear and frustration coursed down my cheeks. I noticed a whistling as I struggled to breathe and this put an edge on my fear knowing instinctively that this was not normal. I stood there crying and as I struggled for breath, I heard the whistling become a raucous rasping. The heaving of my thorax startled me. Sweat broke out on my fevered brow and my back ached as those muscles strove to help in this abnormal quest for air. The attack was anxious to reach its full-blown stage and there was nothing that I knew of, to repel it.
Ouma appeared and picked me up. I was pleasantly surprised. Ouma would often tell me that ‘legs were made for walking’ and, ‘ do you see anybody carrying me?’ Even at two and a half I found that to be a ridiculous statement. “Stop that crying”, she commanded, “It doesn’t help”. I struggled to comply and I put my head on her shoulder to lighten the weight that it had suddenly become. She smelled of Westminster 85 plain and onions; my airways did not take kindly to the odour. She made her way to the bedroom that I shared with her and my mother, and gently put me down in my cot that stood in the corner near the window.
“Don’t move”, she said in that imperious tone that never seemed to be too far away.
“I’m coming now”. She walked to the door and I heard her footsteps receding down the passage. I heard the front door being opened and closed. This was very unusual and a twinge of apprehension coursed through me. Ouma never went anywhere without me. I began to cry with renewed urgency knowing that there would be no admonishment but immediately my afflicted pulmonary system responded by restricting my supply of air. I thrashed about with infantile petulance and succeeded only in aggravating the situation. I eventually settled down to that sobbing that is not really crying, but rather tearless complaining and self-pity. It didn’t affect me as much, and I lay there on my side wondering what would happen next, and hoping that this was something that could be made to go away. If anybody could make anything go away that person would be Ouma.
Soon I heard the front door opening and closing and Ouma’s heavy footsteps coming down the passage. She came to the door of the bedroom and peeped in. I knew from experience that the best strategy was to appear to be sleeping, and she withdrew, satisfied that all was as well as it could be.
About an hour later, Ouma came in with a basin of hot water and a towel to bathe me. I could smell vinegar in the water. I stood on a second towel as she went about washing and drying me. The drying was done briskly and I stood first on one leg and then on the other, as she paid careful attention to drying between my toes. She took the damp washcloth and rubbed my hair vigorously while my head lolled about and my eyes rolled. She fetched my medium bristled brush and brushed the unkempt hair into her accepted style paying special attention to the parting.
Why was she washing me in the middle of the morning? I was still struggling for breath and found all the moving about very wearisome. My body needed support and I held on to the cot, but Ouma was having none of that. “Stand up straight”, she demanded. I stood up as straight as I could and must have looked like one of those soldiers on guard duty who are about to faint but who cannot leave their post and who has to continue standing to attention until he drops. Tears came to my eyes and Ouma gave me a fierce look of displeasure as I continued to snivel through my open mouth.
She chose to ignore me and I tried not to deteriorate into outright crying.
I noticed that she was going to dress me in a new pair of pajamas. I watched her as she removed the garments from the crackling cellophane and shook them free of the packaging. She fiddled with the pins that held the top in place on a shaped bit of cardboard and which kept the form of the top in the bag. She dropped the pins into the bag and dropped it onto the bed.
I was too drained to be overtly joyful about the softness of the fresh flannel on my skin, but wondered vaguely what this Christmas Eve procedure was all about.
There was a moment of crisis when I staggered as I battled to get my leg into the second pajama leg. She was leaning over to accommodate my height and I held on to her shoulders for dear life until I succeeded in getting into the pants. She sprinkled some baby powder into the pants and onto my body, front and back. I again seemed to be irritated by the odour.
All the while I fearfully scanned her face for signs of disapproval. I didn’t know it then, but my fear of annoying Ouma was pumping much needed adrenalin into my system, which in turn was helping me, to cope with this unknown health crisis.
I sat down wearily on the sturdy wicker chair that stood between the cot and my mother’s bed. The chair was home to my two Teddy Bears and one or two other soft toys and chattels that I had. They sat there quietly, as I was expected to sit, on the cushion, under which were my favourite and beloved books. I lay back to relieve the aching of my back and cared not that my pet teddy’s ample nose caused me to lie crookedly like a passed out drunk. My left hand held on to the arm of the chair to enable me to remain stable and comfortable. The vinegar wash that I’d had and the clean clothes made my body feel clean and relaxed.
Ouma opened up my mother’s bed and took the pillows from the cot, fluffed them up and positioned them on top of mother’s pillows. A wardrobe stood on the other side of mother’s bed and from it Ouma took a white, patterned counterpane and covered the bed with it. Could it really be Christmas already?
She picked me up gently and put me in the bed with my head and shoulders snug on top of the pillows. It felt very good, if only I was well enough to enjoy it properly. In our house the only bed you occupied was your own. Limits were to be strictly adhered to, and severe scolding or worse was meted out if I overstepped them.
My mother’s bed had two mattresses. I never did find out why. Both mattresses were good quality and raised the bed to an imposing and comfortable height. I loved the bed and it was a treat to lie in it all by myself.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Ouma asked as she watched me with one hand on her hip. I shook my head wearily. “Excuse me?” she asked as she cocked her head towards me in an attitude of exaggerated listening. “No, thank you, Ouma” I replied hastily, half raising my head to show added respect.
“That’s better”, she replied satisfied, but nodding warningly as if to say, be careful next time. She tucked the cellophane bag under her arm, picked up the basin and towels, and left the room.
The torture of fighting for my next breath made me increasingly weak. The only solace I had was to cry; yet crying made the whole situation worse. The pillow was quite wet with my futile tears; I turned it around as Mother had taught me to do, to make myself more comfortable, but it was beyond being a fully functional pillow. My cheeks were on fire. My chest heaved and ached. My head throbbed. My hair despite being kept short by Pappa had become matted again with the sweat that oozed out of every pore.
“Ouma?” I called out hesitantly because what I should have done was to get up, go to the kitchen and make my request there, but I was just too exhausted. I called out a second time, even more half-heartedly, because I mistook her failure to respond as vexation.
After a few minutes she came in and stood at the foot of the bed. Her face was inscrutable, but as long as there wasn’t any scolding I concluded that everything was fine.
“May I have some water please?” My tone was as conciliatory as I could muster under the breathless conditions. She turned away and a few moments later appeared with my cup. “Thank you, Ouma”, I said and as quickly as I could between gasps of breath, I drained my cup. I handed it back to her and thanked her. She left the room and her lack of any sort of response puzzled me. I sat there panting and when I saw that there was no advantage in sitting up, I lay back on the pillows to try and sleep.
About two hours later, through the haze of my misery and my attempts to sleep, I was roused by a knock at the front door. Knocks on our front door reverberated down the passage and brought our dog, Toetoes, into violent action. I heard Ouma chasing Toetoes to the yard and heard the back door close. Toetoes barked in protest once or twice; but even she had learnt not to incur Ouma’s wrath, and soon fell silent.
Ouma hurried to the front door where she apologized for the delay.
I heard a strange voice reply and the next thing I knew Dr Kantor was in the room. “This is Asthma, Mrs. Paulse”, he said with a knowing nod of his head.  I had only seen Dr Kantor arriving at or leaving his surgery, which was about a hundred and fifty meters down the road from our house. I had never seen him close up before. His blue eyes and the elegance of his manicured chubby hands fascinated me. He must have spent as much time on his fingernails as Mother did on hers. His hair was curly but neat and had remained obedient to the bidding of his hairbrush. A small cap of some kind was perched on the crown of his head, which was kept in place by a hairpin. Had I not been in such a state, I would have politely asked him about it.
“ So what have we here”, he said in a soothing voice. His touch was gentle, as he helped me to sit up, and he continually cooed to put me at ease; I was quite calm even with the continual wheezing. His stethoscope was cold and unpleasant despite him stroking it repeatedly on the lapel of his suit; anyway I was too feeble to care. He listened to my chest and then my back. I breathed noisily through my mouth. He laid me down gently on the pillows when he was done. He opened his bag, which had extended neatly with two tiers on either side and was filled with all kinds of strange bottles and boxes. A pleasant but totally foreign chemical odour rose gently from the bag. He removed a spatula from a packet, and asked me to open my mouth. He examined my throat, smiled and said, “OK”. He then poked a strange instrument that shone brightly, into each ear. He methodically packed away the equipment he had used.
“Yes, as I thought, it’s Asthma. I’m going to give you a prescription to fill at the chemist”. I watched this man who exuded kindness and wished he could stay; if he could help me with this problem, he could surely remedy all things negative. He scrabbled about in his bag and removed a hypodermic needle and a bottle of clear fluid. I knew what a needle was but had not had any bad experiences, so I had no apprehensions as I watched him prepare the injection. He rolled me over gently and pulled down my pajama pants. I watched him over my left shoulder suddenly anxious, and in so doing, further compromised my breathing. He squirted out some of the fluid and quickly without warning, injected the adrenalin into my exposed bum. The sudden pain of the needle shot through me. Anger at his duplicity made me turn towards him like a dog about to attack. He put a restraining hand kindly on my shoulder and said soothingly, “OK, OK, you’ll start to feel better soon”. He took a bit of cotton wool, dribbled some alcohol from yet another bottle onto it, and rubbed my violated bottom. The rubbing eased the stinging of my offended bum and his kindly demeanor helped me regain my poise. Ouma re-arranged my pajamas and covered me. I had suddenly begun to shiver and I felt cold, extremely cold.
He took a pad from his bag and proceeded to write upon it. He tore off the sheet and handed the prescription to Ouma who took it without a word. She didn’t say thank you, I thought.
Dr Kantor repacked his bag and with a reassuring smile prepared to leave.
“He’ll be alright. Let him sleep it off and be sure to pick up the prescription.”
“Thank you very much, doctor”, said Ouma remembering her manners. She escorted Dr Kantor to the door.
Already I felt my breathing ease into a familiar, rhythmic pattern, I even closed my mouth. As I listened to their footsteps going down the passage, I was on the verge of sleep and the blankets had begun to neutralize the shivering. I wondered what this Asthma was and why it had chosen to afflict me; nobody else, including Toetoes seemed to have it. I watched the rise and fall of the bedclothes as I fell asleep, grateful for the relief I felt and for the opportunity to enjoy my mother’s bed; but more especially, thankful for the respite from Ouma’s constant censure.