The New Me

Image: Radiopaedia, via Google (not my lungs).

This is something that I'm just going to have to get used to.

I dreaded the worst when I went to my follow-up appointment with the lung specialist. After all, just a few days before, I received an e-mail from one of many health-report sites that my doctor and some of the area hospitals subscribe to. This report had the results of my recent CT scan, which I had done at the hospital in Renfrew.

Of course, the report used a lot of medical terms with which I was unfamiliar. I had to do some Google searching to figure out what they meant, and the biggest one that stuck out grabbed my full attention.

Partial collapse in both lungs.

My brain went into overdrive, as I imagined doctors cutting into my sides, inserting tubes and re-inflating the lungs. Trying to remain rational, I hoped that the specialist would simply prescribe medication that would get my lungs back to normal.

I called the specialist's office to get a follow-up appointment and learned that he was booked up. July 4 was the earliest that I could see him.

With the thought in my head that my lungs were partially collapsed and that the specialist was willing to wait another month to see me, I started telling myself that it can't be that bad if I was to wait that long. I've learned that if doctors aren't moving in haste, that's usually a good thing. Last year, the surgeon wasn't in a huge rush when it came to my appendicitis. And when Kid 1 was born and not taking well to breathing, I learned, standing next to them, their lack of chaotic movements in getting our baby to respond meant that they had everything in hand and that they knew what they were doing.

She turned out just fine. Though, my heart probably skipped a few beats in the minutes that seemed like hours.

Two days after I made my appointment, however, the specialist's receptionist called me back.

"Doctor B—— just learned about your follow-up date and he's not satisfied with it. He wants to see you right away. Can you come in tomorrow?"

Now, I worried. He wasn't filling in a cancelled appointment with me: he was either bumping someone or making time to squeeze me in.

He also wanted me to take a lung-capacity test, which would be conducted in his office.

Of course, I accepted the new appointment but now, my mind was going to the worst-case scenario—or, actually, the second-worst-case scenario. One of my best friends, who knew of my condition going into the appointment, went to the worst-case scenario, fearing that I had lung cancer.

My mind went to cystic fibrosis, which, one might argue, is just as bad.

At the appointment, I was brought in to the test room by a pleasant technician who seemed to share my sense of humour. At least, she laughed when I hoped she would and she made similar jokes throughout the one-hour test.

I sat in a plexiglass chamber and had an air tube placed in my mouth with my nose pinched closed. I would have to inhale and exhale at certain speeds and with varying force, as well as hold my breath. The technician turned her computer screen such that we could both view it, though most of it made no sense to me.

With each result, she wrote up a report, and when we were done, she had me return to the waiting room while she submitted her report to my doctor.

I waited less than two minutes before the doctor called me in to his office. He explained that my lungs do have reduced capacity, though nothing that would be concerning to him. He said that the space that is working inside my lungs seems strong.

I also have bronchial asthma.

I raised the issue about the report that stated my lungs were partially collapsed and he said that while that medical term can mean a collapse, this was not the case with mine. Rather, there had been some infection that had damaged parts of my lungs, making them inactive.

"Okay," I said, "how do we fix them?"

"I'm afraid we don't," he said. "The damage, unfortunately, is permanent."

Crap.

He did, however, say that I can enhance the quality of the working parts of my lungs with a new inhaler, for which he wrote me a new prescription.

"For how long will I have to take this inhaler?" I asked.

"Forever," was his short answer.

I'm to take this medication twice a day, every day. I'm to also continue to use my Atrovent inhaler for emergencies (I had told him that I was using it with my Symbicort inhaler because, even though he said that the Symbicort inhaler was for use twice a day, plus for emergencies, I explained that there are times when I need a puff and am not near a water source to rinse out my mouth, afterward. He accepted my logic).

I asked him about resuming my activities—cycling and kayaking—and he said that I could resume those tasks, though it can take up to a month for the new inhaler to take any noticeable affect. He added that before I go for a ride, to take a couple of puffs from my inhaler. It would help with the ride.

"Also," he said, "before you start any outdoor activity, check the air-quality reports. If the air quality isn't good, don't head out on your bike." He added that if we have smoke from forest fires, as we did last year, to not go outside at all.

So this is the new me. Or will be, as soon as the meds kick in.