Kabobs & Apple Pie

When I think back on my childhood a lot of moments stick out as being important somehow, but one memory in particular often bubbles to the top. I’ll never forget a night when my youngest sister was 2 years of age. I remember the commotion. My parents running up and down the hallways, making hushed phone calls as then knelt over my sister in her bed. They left my other sister and me at home that night, I can’t remember with whom, as they rushed our youngest sister to the emergency room. That was the night she was diagnosed with asthma, and from that moment on our lives centered around it.

Our refrigerator was filled with medications. My other sister and I learned how to give her injections of prednisone or epinephrine and how to administer nebulizer treatments. Middle-of-the-night visits to the emergency room were frequent.

All of the above was the least of it all, however. Our lives were far more consumed by my sister’s asthma in other ways. My mother and father were unusually strict with my other sister and me. We were allowed no friends, almost no television. We had chores in spades. In fact, we were essentially 100% responsible for keeping the house clean and our family’s clothes laundered and ironed. We were expected to study hard and be the best in our class.

But our youngest sister had asthma. To my mother this meant she should not be required to do anything. She was to be treated with kid gloves, and that meant she should do whatever struck her fancy. She did no chores. She was not well enough to do homework. My mother argued with many teachers who threatened to fail my sister, and when she couldn’t argue she made my other sister and I do her homework. To add insult to injury, she beamed over those “A”s we earned for our sister. Our sister was so smart, she proudly told us.

I never understood how asthma could cripple a child to that extent. What exactly was it about asthma that made homework or making one’s bed difficult? And I could not understand the disparity in our mother’s treatment of us. I chalked it up to something a person would never understand until one was also a mother.

Fast forward three decades. It is the 3am on the day before Christmas Eve. Azita is wheezing loudly. Her chest sucks inward with each labored breath. She cries with each clearly painful cough. When we arrive at the emergency room, they quickly rush us to a room deciding to postpone registration until they have stabilized her breathing. I watch the numbers on a monitor decrease as my infant daughter’s oxygen levels fall, and I have never been more scared in my life.

At that moment I understood a little of what my mother went through. Modern medicine can effectively treat asthma. It no longer is a deadly disease if treated properly. But a mother cannot watch her child struggle to breathe and not be scared. And not want to hold her tight to her chest and do anything to make her better.

My life since that night has been filled with nebulizer treatments, cool mist humidifiers as my daughter sleeps and dehumidifiers during the day to keep mold and mildew at bay, and even the occasional late night steam in the bathroom as we attempt to open up her airways. During the roughest times I coddle my daughter a little. I allow her to suck on her pacifier all day, because I know it gives her comfort. I let her play in the bathtub for as long as she wants, and let her have the ice cream or cookie.

What I don’t do is spoil her. I can understand my mother’s desire, even  need, to cater to some of my sister’s whims in an effort to make her feel better. I do not understand how she could give her a pass on being a good citizen and a decent human being. My sister grew up to be a mean and self-centered person. Things are handed to her on a silver platter and she believes she has earned them. Her mistakes in life are tidily cleaned up by our parents, so she has never learned that bad decisions come with negative consequences. Her expectations for herself are as non-existent as my mother’s were for her.

My parents have done her a disservice. I want more for my daughter.

Asthma is a serious disease, but people live with asthma. People achieve great things with asthma. People achieve great things when they are burdened with far worse diseases. I can give my daughter special treats every once in a while, but as I revisit this childhood experience from another perspective, that of a mother, I know she will not receive special treatment. I expect her to do chores and homework and to treat others with love and care and respect. She will learn to take care of herself and to work hard for what she needs and wants.

In other words, she will get no special passes on being a responsible person. Because in the end, it’s not only important that she learns to live with asthma, it’s important that she learns to live a good life.