The Respiratory Systems of Ellie and Beck | #WATTYS2017

beck

Beck.

It could mean a stream, a gesture, or the great American singer-songwriter. It could also mean that guy who lugs around an oxygen tank.

I am not proud of my oxygen tank.

Or quite frankly, anything asthmatic in my life. My tank's name is Bob because no one likes anyone that is named Bob. I have a tube thing that has nubbins (the things that stick in your nose). I hate those. What sucks is that I have to wear that thing 24/7. It's because if I get any type of dust particles in my body, my asthma will inflate to the highest level. Then, I will die. So unlike regular people, I have to breathe in artificial air. Man-made air. Factory air.

My disease is called Aeripacia, and basically means that my lung will close up if I breathe natural air. It's a 1 in 1.67 billion disease. And I was that one that 1.67 billion that got blessed with it.                                                            

We're packing for camp right now and I'm not looking forward to this. I've never been to a camp--particularly an asthma camp. I've never been away from home, or had any friends move away. Virginia is that type of place. There's a lot of fields, and grass, and tailgate parties. All of which I am certainly not into.                                
But it sounds whack when I tell people that I'm going to asthma camp. I sound like a noob.

Plus, what are we going to do there anyway? Share stories about our asthma attacks and pass around our inhalers. This is not how I wanted to spend my summer. What if the other kids aren't nice and make fun of my tank? What if I make no friends the whole time I'm there? What if I befriend the lonely squirrel that keeps running around because I can feel his pain?

My dad keeps telling me that I needed to stop thinking of bad situations before they happen because they get put out into The Universe. The Universe is this place of spirits that live above the sky. It exists, but it doesn't really exist. I've never seen The Universe, so I'm going to say that it's a myth. Anyway, Dad says that when you say negative things they "travel up to The Universe," and The Universe makes them happen because you don't want them to happen.         

I really don't want to carry the last bag to the car, even though my dad is waiting in the driver's seat, but I know The Universe will punish me. I convince myself that carrying my bag will bring me closer to camp, which will then bring me closer to coming back home. I lug my duffle to the trunk of our faded and rusty blue pickup truck. My hand is on the handle of the passenger door, when Dad cuts on the engine. But first, I need to do something.

I want to take a moment to say goodbye to my house. A whole month--4 weeks, 30 days, 730 hours, 43,800 minutes, and 262, 800 seconds--is a long time away from home. I stall by walking slowly and saying goodbye to my room. All of the memories still float around inside of it without me.

I say goodbye to my baseball card collection, my phone (because they aren't allowed), my laptop, my speakers, my stuffed rabbit (from the baby days), and my blue walls. I mosey over to my parents room and say goodbye because I was conceived there and such. My life wouldn't exist without that bedroom. I say a farewell to the kitchen and living room at the same time, because I ate in both of those places, so they have significance.

Finally, the backyard. I run through the grass with one hand over my mouth, the other gripped onto the waddling tank behind me. When I am safe at the fence, the house yards in front of me, I doubt that my father will come scouting for me. I rest Bob tank against the oak tree way in the back of the yard. There is only a ring of dirt and no grass around the tree. I like this ring of dirt because, for me, it is like a wall. Microscopically smaller than The Great Wall of China, but high enough to keep out the enemy that is grass.

I do not sit in the ring of dirt because if I do, the germs in the dirt will fly up into my mouth. I might accidentally breathe them in, and die.    
Instead, I look up. Through the thick canopy of trees, there is light. Sunlight is the one thing that doesn't send my asthma into a tizzy. It dances on the leaves, creating shadow on the ring of dirt. Some days, I wish I could just live above the world in a tree.                

"Universe," I say. "Everything will be okay."