Laying down in his bed, once again he struggled to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Holding back the throat tearing cough. Knowing that if he let that cough through, he would have to restart his efforts all over again. You should get some albuterol, a nagging voice in his head reminded him. One would think he would be more eager to use the medicine that would likely save his life, but he hated it. He was used to the feeling of not being able to breathe, could even tune it out, and forget that breathing was even necessary. He could not tune out how albuterol affected him.

Asthma was his cross to bear, and the treatment was irritating. He remembered enjoying it as a kid, the feeling of his amped-up heart going a million miles a second trying to regain control of his lungs. It made him feel jittery—as a kid it was the closest he'd felt to being energetic. He remembered thinking it made him feel like an unstoppable hero, completely invincible. Now though, it made him feel weak. His legs shook like a baby deer, and he felt just as helpless. The thing he once thought gave him energy as a kid, he now realized was draining.

Years ago, his family thought his endless battle to live was over. He might have still been exhausted by even a minor workout, and might have still had trouble breathing periodically, but compared to the child that had spent more of his life in the hospital than out of it, those problems were trivial.

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He too thought it was over then. The periods of time between major asthma attacks were growing almost exponentially. Earlier that year, it had been nearly five years since he even had an albuterol treatment, and more than eight since he had been in the hospital. The child that once thought his meds gave him the power of invincibility, began to realize that breathing without aid was not only an option but made him feel far more powerful.

And then it ended. He had been helping his family with a painting the chicken coop when some of the fumes caused a particularly bad reaction. It was nowhere near as bad as the ones he had as a child, but for the first time in five years he could not regulate his breathing with willpower and measured breaths. And it just continued to get worse.

He stopped visiting his family, out of shame he supposed. His parents had been so happy that he had been getting better and he knew that their greatest financial burden had been his health. He had been so proud that his progress could help them relax after years of late-night treatments and panicked drives to the hospital. He could not bring himself to tell them that their nightmare was back. They would not complain, would not hesitate to help. Something about that only made it worse.

So, he decided he would get through it alone. But in order to do that, he NEEDED to have treatment. As much as he hated feeling shaky legged and weak, he would not ever get better without it.