It was an early morning; the air was thin in combination with the ghastly wind. Nature was welcoming back the sun rise; birds were gracefully singing greeting songs. A fresh day was commencing, but something did not seem right. Still lying in my bed I felt that my chest had weighted me down. My breathing period lengthened. Viscous mucus started to build up around my throat. Struggling to extract the oxygen from my lungs I tried all sorts of methods. An unfriendly wheeze had joined the party. By now I was taking less breathes than usual, I did not know what to do. I had called out to my mother, but no reply was heard of. .
I reached out to my lamp-table for my reliever, the ventolin. One, two, three, and up to four puffs were taken. Hoping for a change in breathing pattern, I paused and waited patiently, but there was no signs of improvement. I noticed that the volumeter was beside the lamp, making use of this I tested it out. I had faintly remembered the procedures of using this apparatus. Breathe in deep, and blow. It was that simply, but that simplicity became a nightmare for me. My doctor had informed me that an average blow was meant to read around four-five hundred. He also warned me if the reading had been under two hundred then I was to see him immediately. Unexpectedly the meter had read seventy. Out of the blue the door flung open, .
“What’s wrong John?” exclaimed my mother, when she saw me half dangling off my bed. .
“I I I can’t breathe” I whispered while desperately gasping for oxygen. .
My mother had instantly noticed the reading on the volumeter and called my local doctor. It was not long until the car started to travel towards the man who was supposively meant to help ease my breathing. .
After a round of testing and searching for the problem, the doctor came to a conclusion that an asthma attack was triggered. Familiar to the word asthma, the phrase “asthma attack” was never come across before, so I had questioned the doctor,.