Like Me

He carried me home late at night.

I slept on his shoulder and didn’t even notice being put to bed.

I don’t know if I actually remember this or if I created a memory from a story my mom told me.

I was only 3 years old.

I see your sleepy face at 11:30 PM and wonder if you’ll sleep on my shoulder, too.

You won’t remember this time, the first time. But I will remember for us.

We held your tiny hands and sang songs to calm you down and distract you while the nebulizer did its job in the emergency room.

You eventually relaxed and began breathing slower, matching my rhythm more and more.

You’re too little to understand, but I talk to you anyway.

I tell you how this will help you and how much better you’ll feel in a few minutes.

I think of how soothing the sound and smell of the medication is for me.

You are scared, but I want you to feel safe, just as I did each time I sat on the same bed.

I remember being little and wishing the steam never ended. I remember the calmness of overrated regular and evenly paced breaths.

Asthma is a big part of my identity.

So is my nose, my laziness, and my neverending excitement for food.

You have that, and I wonder if asthma will join the list.

We pull into our parking lot at 11:30 PM; we are tired and hungry but also relieved.

You sleep through the noise we make as we gather our things.

I tell Tim about this memory I have of my dad carrying me and how I wish you would sleep on my shoulder like that.

He makes an offering of positivity and says, “She could.”

I’m hesitant. You always wake up.

I unbuckle you and bring you up to my chest.

You don’t flinch.

As we walk across the lot, Tim smiles at me.

I hold you, and we breathe together.

We breathe deep and slow.

You will remember many times in the future when we practice breathing.

You might grow up collecting ER memories like me–feeling glad for the effects of that nebulizer.

Knowing that once it starts, it’s only a matter of time before you can breathe normally again.

This night, though, you won’t remember because you’re too young.

But I’ll do what my mom did, and I’ll tell you about tonight.

The ER visit, the many attempts at keeping you calm, the shared breathing, and how you came home asleep on my shoulder. Like me.