I grew up asthmatic. Before the time of inhalers, my mother would sit with me in the middle of cold, dark nights, at the kitchen table, as I breathed mentholated steam through a mug of hot water and Vicks Vapor Rub. My mom had rigged a system with a mask and tube through a plastic lid she attached to the mouth of the cup with surgical tape—supplies she brought home from the hospital where she worked as an x-ray tech. I imagine she added a strong dose of prayer.
As a child I spent a great deal of time struggling to breathe, afraid to sleep at night because surely I would die if I wasn’t consciously trying to breathe. Not only could I not breathe through my lungs—but I could not breathe through my nose.
