Asthma is a storm, a tornado, a rush of immune cells. A flood. A swarm. A whirlwind – everything out of place.
Asthma is cells and signalling, fibres, fibrosis, scarring of airways, cross linking, remodelling, a dense mesh of tissue.
Asthma is a nasty little cave that she has to find her way out of, alone.
Asthma is ‘hafani’. In Bangladesh, asthma is hanging a betel nut around the neck of a child.
Asthma is worse in the wintertime, the summertime, at nighttime, in the cold, in the sun, in the wind, in the rain, in the pollution from the city, in the pollen from the forest.

Asthma is the dust from the rice husking factory where she worked.
Asthma is living on one of the busiest, most polluted roads in Manchester.
Her father smoked like a factory chimney. Her mother smoked. Her two older brothers smoked.
At work, they used a plug-in air freshener that set off her asthma. When she left that job, as a leaving gift, they gave her a day to make her own perfume.
Asthma is asking her friend not to come because they have a cold. “what a fusspot, she imagines them thinking”.
Asthma is limiting the things that she loves: flowers, cats, rabbits, football….
Asthma is sleeping next to her cat at night, even though she knows it will make her asthma worse. She loves her cat.
Asthma is appreciating clean, fresh air, after a rain storm, at the top of a mountain.

Asthma is planning experiments, slicing lung tissue, brushing the lungs, growing cells, feeding cells, caring for cells. Reading papers and textbooks.
Asthma is a high, thick wall, an insurmountable problem slowly being chipped away.
Asthma is imaging 37 things at once, like the layers of the seabed. A snapshot of the lungs.
Building an atlas of the airways.
Asthma is somehow connected to hormones, puberty, menstruation, pregnancy, the menopause, stress…

Asthma is prescriptions, blood tests, constantly planning ahead, starting and ending the day with her inhaler.
Her asthma becomes her husband’s work; cooking, cleaning, looking after the children.
Her son runs for the Ventolin. He doesn’t mind if he gets beans on toast for dinner.
Asthma is feeling embarrassed by the way her husband breathes. It is sitting at the back, with people she doesn’t know, because her husband was too ill to attend the wedding.
Asthma is there in their most intimate moments. It’s not sexy to smell of Vix.

Asthma is staying off school. They said it wasn’t fair for the teachers to deal with her asthma.
She was too ill to play sport. The games mistress didn’t understand, shouting “you stupid goose”.
She doesn’t like using her inhaler. She feels self conscious when they look, feels embarrassed by the noise.
Asthma is missing out, falling behind, feeling different. She keeps it to herself, she keeps it hidden and doesn’t talk about it.
She was a strong swimmer when she was well. She received a bronze medallion, became a lifeguard and felt like a normal teenager. She is proud to be alive.

Asthma is invisible. Nothing to see here. Her struggle to breathe is not seen, although she thinks about breathing all of the time.
Asthma is underestimated, taken too lightly. They talk down to her. They shrug. They tell her “just calm down”. They save their compassion for cancer.
Comfort is a clean duvet, curling up by the heater, a hug, a shower, a scarf and hat. Her faith, her god, Al-Shaafi, the healer. Sharing. By sharing it’s not so bad.
Asthma is sharing stories, having a voice and being heard.
Asthma is a different story for everyone.