Every day at MyAsthmaCentral.com we get lots of asthma related questions. Below are some questions I thought my readers at the RT Cave would enjoy.
(I normally try to shorten questions to make them pithy, and I made an exception for this one because it's simply a great question as worded.)
Question: I just had a question about this because I think it's odd. My asthma doctor sent me to the ER on Thursday because I called her for the second time that week. I wasn't wheezing or anything, my chest just felt really funny and was starting to hurt. I was trying to be good about calling early too, so it didn't get too bad. So she sent me to the ER.
I just find it odd that after a nebulizer treatment and 60m of prednisone, I started wheezing for the first time that day. I also find it a bit disconcerting because in some ways I didn't realize it was that bad until after I had taken the extra medications. I'm now on 50m of prednisone along with advair, alvesco, singulair, and about 4 other allergy medications. I do feel much better today (Sat.)
The other thing is they're always asking me how low my peakflow is. It drops, but not that much, so I've learned to base what I do on my symptoms. So although I feel better my peakflow was actually lower this morning than when I went to the ER. I'm just grateful they listened to me anyways.
My humble answer:
The first thing I want to say to you is based on what you describe here you seem to be a Gallant Asthmatic like Jake Gallant, and a true role model for other asthmatics. I'm very impressed that you called your physician as soon as you observed your early warning signs so your asthma could be treated right away to prevent it from getting worse.
To answer your question, not all asthmatics wheeze during asthma attacks, which is why it is essentially important that you follow your Asthma Action Plan, of which you did. Even while your peak flows barely decreased, and you did not wheeze, your body gave you other signs that it was time to call your physician.
Likewise, it can be normal to not wheeze during an asthma attack, which can also be a sign of worsening asthma. Often times when I give bronchodilator breathing treatments to an asthmatic in the hospital I hear more wheezes after the treatments than before, in which case wheezes can be a sign that your air passages are opening up and air is flowing more freely through them. So, for you, wheezing may be a sign that your asthma is improving.
Monitoring peak flows is a great way for most asthmatics to monitor their asthma, but for some reason peak flows do not drop for some asthmatics. This is all the more reason for you to be aware of YOUR other early warning signs and to work with your doctor on creating an Asthma Action Plan that works best for you. It appears you have one and followed it to a tee. Great job.
Question: love your blog. You've recently posted about Singulair and I'm needing opinions on my Xopenex. My copay is 50 bucks and will be increasing to 60 in July. I rarely need it. I've got an appointment with my Dr in August. What would you (as an asthmatic and RT) recommend that may be less expensive than the Xopenex? I've tried straight albuterol and it made me too jittery.
My humble answer: Xopenex and Albuterol and really the only bronchodilators on the market that are safe for home rescue use. Some people seem to note fewer side effects with Xopenex, yet since Xopenex is not available as a generic it is way more expensive than Albuterol. Sorry to say this, but there really is no alternative to Xopenex unless you want to go back to Albuterol. Obviously you don't want to stay short of breath, so for the time being you have to decide between a drug that makes you shaky or a drug that costs a lot.
Wish I had a better answer for you.
Question: everytime i have asthma attack, i have irregular heart beat. why?
My humble answer: An irregular heart beat is not normally associated with asthma, and is definitely something you should talk to your doctor about.
Question: I'm 15 years old and I find it hard to take deep breathes in, do you know what it could be? It has happened for ages but my parents haven't done anything about it, I don't know what to do and I sometimes get panic attacks.
My humble Answer: Based on what you describe here I think it's time you sit down with your parents and have a discussion about your health. If you need to print this off and show it to your parents. As you know, it is not a good feeling when you are having trouble breathing, and being short of breath is something you should NEVER ignore.
Yes, it is possible what you have is asthma, but unfortunately we cannot diagnose you over the Internet. I would highly recommend your parents take you to your physician so you can get checked out, because only your doctor can tell you what is wrong with you and what you can do to treat it.
Likewise, if he diagnoses you with asthma, there are great controller medicines to prevent asthma attacks so you should be able to live a normal active life.
You should tell your parents that most asthma experts agree that if asthma is diagnosed immediately and treated aggressively it can be prevented from getting worse, and can therefore be easier to control now and down the road.
On the other hand, if you do have asthma and it is left untreated, it is possible that lung scarring can occur that can make your asthma more of a challenge to control down the road.
If you have a question you would like to ask you may inquire at freadom1776@yahoo.com
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
My journey to the asthma hospital
On January 8, 1985, I boarded a plane in snowy Grand Rapids, Michigan with my mom, and three hours later we arrived in an equally white Denver, Colorado. This was not a vacation. The purpose of the trip was for mom to have me admitted to a hospital that specialized in asthma. The estimated time of stay was 6-8 weeks.
While my first ride in an airplane went great, that night at the hotel the asthma beast that I was oh too familiar with struck again.
"Do you think I should take you across the street," she said as we both stood looking out the window at the unfamiliar complex of the asthma hospital.
"I don't know," I said, taking a hit of my inhaler, pretending to be fine. "I think we can wait."
The truth was I was very short-of-breath that night. When mom fell asleep I sat up on the edge of my bed gasping for air. "I should wake her up," I thought. Instead I took more hits of my inhaler.
The next morning mom and I walked to a nearby restaurant. I concentrated on every minute, thinking each was my last of normal life. When finished we walked back to the room. Mom said, said, "They say you'll only need to be here 6-8 weeks. It's only a short time. Just think of every weekend as a marker of one more week gone by."
I suppose it was mom’s optimism that kept my anxiety under wraps. I was excited about meeting other asthmatics my age, but I was nervous about the unexpected.
Back in the hotel room mom grabbed one end of the trunk. I sighed, and grabbed my end, and we were off. While walking across the street I looked up at the buildings wondering which one would be my new home, and what floor?
***
Mom was sitting in the business office filling out paperwork while I sat twiddling my thumbs on a chair in the hall. A few days ago, he called and introduced himself to me, “I will be your counselor during your stay at the asthma hospital. If you have any problems at any time I will be available.”
He appeared to be of amiable disposition, and his voice was very calm. I looked forward to meeting him. For now, though, I had to wait for mom to finish filling out papers, and “It’s taking forever,” I thought as I peered down the hall where there were several offices.
I leaned forward and thought about going into the office where mom was, but mom told me specifically to stay put. I could hear the muffled sound of mom’s voice followed by the muffled sound of the secretaries, followed by shuffling of paper, and then, for what seemed like eternity, the click clack of a typewriter.
What would he look like – the social worker? Would he be as nice as he sounded on the phone? I sure hoped so, because I couldn’t handle a mean person. What would the nurses be like? What would my doctors be like? And, perhaps most important, what would it be like to meat a bunch of other asthmatics who were just like me? Would they be just like me? Who would become my friend? Will I find a friend?
These thoughts rolled around in my cranium like balls on a billiards table until finally the click clacking stopped. I stood up and peered into the crack of the door and saw the tip of mom’s jeans where they covered the knees and the front of a desk with paper scattered about. Why was she still sitting there? How much paper work could there be?
The door opened and there stood mom in her blue top and blue jeans. Her dark hair set in a new perm over her beautiful phlegmatic eyes. She was a young person, only 38, but to me she was a sagacious god, a permanent barrier to any harm and the answer to all the problems of the world. I know this wasn’t the normal mom/son relationship of your typical teenager, but I wasn’t
normal by any means – I was chronically ill. Funny thing was, though, I didn’t think of myself that way. In fact, I didn’t think of myself as chronically ill until 23 years later when I’d send for, receive, and read my medical records from my stay at the asthma hospital.
“He should be here any minute now,” she said, her voice soothing.
“Who?” I said, shaking my head.
“Ric Dexter. She called him. She said he’s a tall man with a well kempt dark beard, and is really nice. She said you’d like him.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
It seemed like forever, but from around the corner appeared a man who fit the description. "
Hi, I’m Ric Dexter,” he said. “I talked with you on the phone.”
I looked at mom. She said, “Hi. I’m Alice Frea and this is my son, Ric.”
“Hi, Rick, I hope you are as excited as I hope you are,” he said. “Let’s get rid of this trunk, and then I’ll take you on a tour. Then I’ll show you your new room and introduce you to your new room mate.”
Lamely, all I could think to say was: “Okay.”
He grabbed one handle of the trunk while mom and I looked on. “Normally I’d say your son should grab that other handle,” he said, “But he doesn’t look so well right now.”
I took a deep breath as I watched mom grab the handle and HEAVE the trunk. I lagged behind Ric and mom. We were walking down the hall, through a door I suspected would take us back out into the cool winter air that was Denver, Colorado. But the door took us to a hallway that wended this way and that, through this door and that door, until finally we were in some sort of lobby that smelled of cooked bacon.
“This is the lobby of the Goodman building,” he said. He pointed left at a set of see through doors where I could see what appeared to be a restaurant with a few people seated at many tables eating what I suspected was bacon and eggs and toast and whatever came on the early morning menu. “That’s the cafeteria,” he said. He peered down at me. “You won’t be eating here, Ric.” He looked up at mom. “But you will become really familiar with the food here, which is pretty decent for a hospital.”
“I never had good hospital food before,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue.
“Around this corner,” Ric said, “ ah here it is, is the elevator that will take us to the 7th floor where you will be staying.”
He pushed the little round, red button. Ric continued to explain about the hospital to mom and me, and mom occasionally responded with an “uhum,” or “okay, I see.” I stood by the elevator door listening to the thump-thump of my heart in my chest. I wondered if mom and Ric could here it
“This is 7-Goodman,” he said as the door swung open revealing a long hall with bright orange carpet. “This is where my office is,” he said as we passed a window revealing offices set apart by dividers. He opened the door.
“Hi, Sarah,” he said. “This is Ric Frea and his mother Alice.” Sarah was a heavyset lady with dark, curly hair. She smiled pleasantly and offered a hand, which I took. “You will see her several times a week as many of your appointments will be with me and Linda.”
“Who’s Linda?” I asked. “She’s one of your doctors. Her office is right next to mine.” He pointed to an office that had “Ric Dexter” printed on the door. Then he pointed to a door that had “Linda
Hepper” printed on it.
“Okay,” he said, “I can show you around here later. I suppose you want to meet some kids. Right” He patted me on the shoulder and he walked to the door and opened it. “Come on. It’s time to have some fun.”
I felt a lump in my throat as I stepped back into the hallway and waited for mom and Ric to take the lead. I then followed Ric down the hall to a capacious room with the same bright orange carpet that filled the hall. To my right was a large nurses station. Two nurses were sitting there with their heads stuffed into charts.
The majority of the room was filled with square, white tables with chairs pushed neatly in place. Straight ahead I saw a pool table. The long wall to my right was replete with several doors and windows blocked by curtains on the other side. The same scene was on the opposite, Western wall.
A bulletin board on the Western wall had a head of Beetle Baily and Garfield with the words, “WELCOME TO 7-GOODMAN” neatly printed between them. Under that was written, “My way of drawing Garfield. I call him Crashfield.”
While I was busy looking around the room, I didn’t notice the nurses had noticed us and had were now standing beside us. Mom and Ric set down the trunk.
"This is Karen," Ric said, introducing me to the first nurse. She was a young, fine looking curly haired nurse. She bent down before me so I could see right into her pretty blue eyes. She said, "You're blue!
"We better consider this a code blue," said a short, pudgy nurse in a white dress who stood behind Karen. Her nametag read Linda.
Karen grabbed my hand, and nearly dragged me across the room. "Have a seat," she said motioning to a chair by the wesst side of the lobby (which I later would learn was the girl's side)You need a treatment NOW."
Mom followed close behind. She kept her distance as Karen took my vitals while Linda disappeared somewhere behind the nurses station. I groaned as the pressure from the sphygmomemometer exceeded my pain threshold on my right forearm.
“Sorry,” Karen said, “We like to start out high when we have new patients.”
While I listened to the air leave the sphygmomanometer, I looked over Karen’s rich head of hair at mom and Ric. Ric stood there with a cool expression on his face, as though he had been through this many times. Mom looked worried.
My mom recounted her anxieties in a recent email:
"Here we were at the leading asthma institution in the world and they were running a code blue on you. If they were taking it that seriously, it meant you really were THAT bad."
“Ric wanted to take me on a tour,” I said to the nurses, vaguely hoping it might get me out of this predicament.
“Ric understands that we need to do our jobs,” Linda said. She stood beside me now holding a nebulizer. She plugged it into the compressor that sat on a table. “Right Ric?”
She clicked the nebulizer on so it hummed audibly. Over the hum I could barely hear Ric. “I certainly do. Hey, I’m going to go back to my office while you finish up here. When you are done you can call me and I’ll finish the tour. I’ll put the trunk in Ric's room.”
“Great,” mom said. “Thank for—“
The rest of that conversation was lost as Linda blocked my view of mom and Ric, turned on the compressor, and the nebulizer rumbled to life. She then handed me the misting nebulizer.
"I feel fine," I said.
"You're just used to it," Karen said.
"I feel fine," I thought, forcibly preventing myself from rolling my eyes.
I put the misting mouthpiece into my mouth the way I did many times before in hospitals.
"Sit straight," Karen said, "Your stomach should go out when you breathe in slowly through your mouth, inhaling the white mist. Exhale slowly through your nose."
"I know all that," I said.
"We're going to re-teach you many things," Linda said.
"Plug your nose when you inhale," Karen said, "When you inhale count to three, when you exhale count to six... sit up straight... Ric, sit up straight."
Lots of rules for one silly treatment, I thought. But these were the rules I had to follow for the next 6-8 weeks. I sure so hope I'm out of here in 6-8 weeks.
Finally the treatment was done. "Shake it good," Karen said. "You want to get the most medicine you can out of it."
Several minutes later the comperssor was off and I watched as a petite, dark haired lady in a brown dress walked up to mom. "I'm Dr. Betty," she said, "I'll be your son's doctor. We'll take good care of him."
"That's what we're hoping," mom said, and she told Betty about the asthma attack I had last night
"By the looks of things here," Dr. Betty said, "You should have brought him in. In fact, he should have been in a hospital the past week. She looked mom in the eyes, "Really, HE IS THAT BAD. I just want you to know you did the right thing bringing him here."
Finally, after an hour with the doctor, the smell of spaghetti was in the air and a congregation of asthmatic kids of all sizes shuffled in one by one for lunch and noon meds.
I barely had a chance to meet the other kids when Karen called me to the nurse’s station where Ric was standing. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see your room mate, but how about if we finish our tour now that you’re feeling better?”
He took me to a door on the east side of the room. “This is the boy’s rooms,” he said.
"This place is clean for a boy's dorm," mom said as she entered the room and looked around. I followed closely behind.
"Well," Ric said, "We have a level system here. If the kids follow the rules they can move up to honors and get special privileges. It's a good incentive to keep your room clean." He smiled and looked at me.
On the far side of the room, the eastern side, the wall was basically a huge window with a view of the city around the hospital set amid overcast skies. "If you look north," he pointed, "you can see the Rockies on a clear day."
I followed him to the next room where the bed by the window was unkempt, and books and papers scattered about. "Eric is your room mate. He's a good kid, but he's kind of sloppy."
There were two other beds in the room. "The one by the door is yours," he said. "You have to be close to the nurses until you move up to the next level. If you get to honors you can pick your own bed and even have a chance to get a TV."
After showing me around the boy’s rooms Ric showed mom and I around the rest of the hospital. By the time we were back on 7-Goodman the other kids slowly carted into the room. A plump black kid, who would later introduce himself as Willie, was playing pool with another boy with messy black hair.
“Hey, there’s your room mate,” Ric said. I looked around the room at all the kids that were now scattered about, two boys were sitting at tables involved in a project that was perhaps homework, a conglomeration of girls were standing in the far corner perhaps chattering about the latest gossip, and perhaps the topic of the day was, “Who is the new boy? Gosh, will he turn out to be a cool kid or a chump?”
Ric led mom and me to the pool table to where the messy haired kid was aiming his cue at the black ball. Click. “Aha, I won!” he yelled as the black eight ball bounded into a corner pocket. “Finally I beat you.”
“Ah, that’s fine,” Willie said, “We’re just having fun.”
“Fun, my butt. It’s all about winning.” The messy haired boy’s grin filled his face as he twirled his pool stick over his head.
“Hey, Eric, how’s it going,” Ric said. The pool stick flew out of Eric’s hand and clattered on the floor.
“What? Who?” His smile instantly wiped away and filled with an expression of concern.
“I want you to meat someone.” Ric motioned for me to move forward. “This is Ric Frea
"This is your new roommate. Rick, this is Eric Groch.”
I offered my hand, but Eric walked away. He bent down, picked up his pool stick, and leaned on the table, facing the door to his –and my—room.
Beside me mom was standing with her camera out. She tried to take a picture of Eric, but he quickly darted out of the range of the camera. Mom aimed through the camera again, but he darted, ducked under the pool table. The camera clicked. The picture of the pool stick and parts of Eric’s red shirt still show in the picture today, the only one of him I have.
Only fitting, though, as he would turn out to be a big thorn in my side – a drug addict, criminal mind moron you might say. The kind of person no mom would ever want her son to meat, and here I was his roommate.
Willie said, "Well, if you're not going to play pool, Rick can play."
"Cool," I said, "I'll play."
Eric plopped himself out from under the table, but when he saw my mom was eagerly standing by waiting to snap another picture, back under he went. An ominous sign of the chump Eric would turn out to be.
Willie would turn out to be a good pal.
(Dean and his mom and dad were standing nearby. Mom talked with his mother. Introduced me to Dean, who was admitted the day before. The next day mom and Dean’s parents went shopping while I participated in an array of tests.)
Later that day, after a ton of appointments with doctors and testing, mom asked my doctor if she could take me to the museum. Dr. Betty said I was too unstable. I understood, but it was disappointing none-the-less considering mom was in town five days and I couldn't do anything with her.
Finally, on the 14th of January, I kissed her good-bye. I really didn’t have a lot of time those initial days to be homesick as the activities were abounding. Still there were some dark moments.
This was not a normal hospital where you sat in bed all day. It was more of an institution where you went about your normal daily activities, which were blended in with various tests and appointments. The intent was to get our asthma under control in the process of making us gallant asthmatics.
The next morning I got up at 6 a.m. and walked out to the lobby in my jimmies. A short, curly haired blonde female teenager I had yet to be introduced to was taking a breathing treatment. I could hear the soft audible purr of the machine.
“I can see your underwear,” Eric teased. “Hey everybody, you can see Rick's underwear through his witto jimmies.”
Of course growing up with four brothers I didn’t care, and proceeded to the nurse’s station. The night nurse placed three pills on the counter. “this one here tastes really bad, so you might want to take it with grape juice,” she said.
The grape juice was good, but that pill tasted NASTY at the back of my throat regardless. It was the steroid pill. Even through the strong grape flavor there was nothing I could do to prevent the pill from sliding over the sour receptors of my tongue.
The other pill was Theo-Dur, a bronchodilator in pill form. That pill was relatively bulky, but I had no trouble getting it down.
“Can I take my treatment now?” I asked. I was tight.
“Well, you are gonna have to wait a while. Deana is taking a treatment now, and then comes Eric, Dean, Willie and then Stan. They were up before you. If you want to take a treatment first, you’re going to have to get up a lot earlier than this.”
“Oh, come on. I need one now.”
“Well, you should think about that before you sleep in,” she said, as she set the next kid’s meds on the counter.
“But I didn’t’ sleep in. I’m up right on time.”
“Well, you’ll have to reconsider.”
I sat in a chair by the door of my room while I waited for my turn on the nebulizer. Finally Stan sat in the treatment chair. Another girl was in the other treatment chair. I walked to the med room behind the nurse’s station. Here, on a counter, were several brown, glass bottles of medicine.
I filed through cardboard papers in a box to the right and pulled out the one with my name on it. Listed on the card was the meds I was supposed to take in the nebulizer: Alupent 0.3cc and Atrovent 0.5mg. As I was reading the card Cathy, my head nurse, came into the room and poked her head over my shoulder. Willie was also in the room doing something with his nebulizer, but I paid him no attention.
“I’ll just watch you do it today,” she said. Before this day she drew up the meds and I watched. So this was progress.
To the left, on a rack hanging on the wall, were plastic bags with our nebs in them. I grabbed the one with my name, heart thumping but only because I had cute Cathy breathing down my shoulder, and dumped out the contents on the counter. I set it up so the cup was open.
I grabbed the syringe and set it in front of me. I reached for the large, brown bottle of Atrovent and twisted the cap until it was off. On the inside of the cap was a black squeeze bulb. I squeezed up the correct dose as Karen showed me the earlier, and squeezed it into the nebulizer cup. I did the same with the Alupent.
The treatment now together, I walked back to the lobby. Cathy followed me out of the med room, but instead of following me to the treatment chair she went behind the nurses station. My chest was tight. I was audibly wheezing. I was huffing as I walked by the nurse’s station. Stan still had his hand over his nostrils and the neb in his mouth, but I could hear it was close to finished.
“John, can I talk with you,” Cathy said.
I approached her. As I did so Stan got up and another kid took his place in the treatment chair. I had missed my turn. Thank you very much, Cathy. How the heck could I miss my turn when no one came into the med room the whole time I was in there.
On a table near the nebulizer three girls were seated and giggling. Al three were looking at me. One of them got up, giggling the whole way, and walked to the med room.
“John,” Cathy was leaning on the counter looking at me. She whispered as I stood next to and leaned on the counter. I could not hear what she said, so I leaned in the same time she did. We were nearly face-to-face. “I didn’t want to say this in the med room in front of Willie.” She paused and held back a smile before she finished. “First of all, you really ought to wear a bathrobe over your pajamas. Either that or you should get dressed before you come out here for your meds in the morning. We can all see your underwear through your pajamas.”
“You already said that,” I said.
“Well, I guess you didn’t hear me. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said. “I hear you. Tomorrow I’ll get up earlier. What time is good?”
“Well, if you want to get up before the other kids, you better be here by 5:30. You don’t have to, it’s your choice. Remember, you can take your morning treatment anytime between 5:30 and 6:30. But if you need a treatment as bad as you do, you ought to be up earlier.”
“Okay,” I said. From now on the other kids are gonna wait for me.
I turned and started for the nebulizer. Stan was STILL puffing on that thing. Is there anything coming out? I don’t see any mist. I turned to Cathy who was still leaning on the counter looking at me. “Cathy?”
“Yes.” She let her smile show this time. You look darn good-looking for a nurse. I wonder how old you are.
“How did Stan beat me to the treatment chair. I didn’t see him in the med room.”
“He was up earlier and prepared his treatment so he was ready to go. You can do that to if you want.”
The next day my alarm went off at 5 a.m. sharp. I leaned across my bed, hit the off button, and could hear my room mate snoring, his radio still blaring. I hopped out of bed in my pajamas, and I grabbed my green fluffy bathrobe I had set on my nightstand. As I opened the door to the lobby I saw there were no kids up yet. I had all the med room and the nebulizers to myself.
When 5:30 arrived I had my butt in the nebulizer seat. From this point on the other kids had to wait for me.
***
It was my responsibility to know when my meds were due and to take them as instructed. If I missed one dose, or used improper technique, I would lose my allowance for the week. Without allowance I’d have no money to spend at the weekly field trip. (Which didn't matter at this point anyway because Dr. Betty wouldn’t allow me to go even if I had the points.)
The point sheet is what I used to keep track of my progress. On it was all the things I had accomplished in a day. If I lost it, that was like losing all my points. And it is points that determined how I moved up the levels.
As I popped my pills with grape juice, I looked up at the board behind the nurse’s station. Dean’s name and mine were printed on the bottom written in blue marker, while all the other kid’s names were written in black. Next to our names was written the level we were on. My level was 2. Alongside the other names were 1, 2, 3, 4 or H for honors. The goal was to move up to honors, and the place no one wanted to go was level 1, because that meant no allowance and no privileges at all.
***
I followed Eric and the other kids to the elevator and down to the basement. It was time for my first day of school. I followed the other kids through the tunnels.
Mr. Rose was a nice teacher. He seemed a bit obnoxious though, but I suppose when your teaching a bunch of chronically ill kids you have to be a bit different. "We have a new student, today," he said, "This is Rick Frea. Rick, tell us about yourself."
"Um..." I said, "I'm from Michigan and I... uh... I have asthma and it got really bad and so now.. uh.. now I am here to get my asthma under control."
"As is the case with all of us, right guys?"
The class shouted in unison, "Right Mr. Rose."
A short-stout kid with loose fitting clothes and long blonde hair sat in a seat right before Mr. Rose's desk. He never stopped talking for the first 30 minutes of class. Finally Mr. Rose said, "Chico, I think that bandana of yours is tied too tight over your skull and squeezing your brain, because it sure doesn't seem to be working today."
"That's because I'm hip." Chico said.
"That's because you're a dip," Mr. Rose said. "Now stop talking a minute so we can educate the rest of the class, because obviously you don't have any interest in education. I'm not even sure it's possible to educate you."
"I'm already fully educated," he chided.
"We can all see how educated you are, Chicohead. Now hush."
At noon I followed the other students back through the tunnels to 7-Goodman. The nurses gave me my noon meds. Karen was there. She told me I had appointments the rest of the day and wouldn't be going back to school.
The second day of school, and many of the days that followed, I had to leave many times for "lots of appointments, which included a PFT," according to my personal diary.
By the time I got back from testing the other kids were done with school. I was told after school was supposed to be our time to relax, do homework or socialize, but up to this day I never had a chance to do either.
After dinner, at 7.pm., it was time for aerobics. I was told I had to go down to participate, but I wasn't able to do anything physical. It surely wasn't fun standing there while the other kids were playing kick ball.
***
The next day I talked to Dr. Betty between appointments and she said I could participate in aerobics if I wanted to that night. But, when I did, my chest got tight, I started to wheeze, and one of the kids had to show me how to get back to 7-Goodman.
"Get an epinephrine ready," a pudgy nurse said as she started a breathing treatment and handed it to me. "Concentrate on your breathing. Sit straight. Concentrate on your breathing."
I did as I was taught those first few days. I concentrated on my breathing, and soon I was able to take in a normal breath, but it didn't come until the treatment was almost finished. I almost bought myself my first Denver Epi that night, but it wasn't needed.
The next day I had to do a barium swallow. That's a test to determine if there were any stomach abnormalities. I'm telling you, while I was there they did every test imaginable. They even did an EEG one day because I had constant headaches.
For obvious reasons I didn't do very well in school on these initial days. In my diary I kept writing, "School was boring today. I have to study for exams and I hate it." I was probably antsy about all these tests they were doing on me. Well, plus I was homesick being so far away from home.
Finally it was Friday of week two. I marked my diary: 4-6 weeks to go.
While my first ride in an airplane went great, that night at the hotel the asthma beast that I was oh too familiar with struck again.
"Do you think I should take you across the street," she said as we both stood looking out the window at the unfamiliar complex of the asthma hospital.
"I don't know," I said, taking a hit of my inhaler, pretending to be fine. "I think we can wait."
The truth was I was very short-of-breath that night. When mom fell asleep I sat up on the edge of my bed gasping for air. "I should wake her up," I thought. Instead I took more hits of my inhaler.
The next morning mom and I walked to a nearby restaurant. I concentrated on every minute, thinking each was my last of normal life. When finished we walked back to the room. Mom said, said, "They say you'll only need to be here 6-8 weeks. It's only a short time. Just think of every weekend as a marker of one more week gone by."
I suppose it was mom’s optimism that kept my anxiety under wraps. I was excited about meeting other asthmatics my age, but I was nervous about the unexpected.
Back in the hotel room mom grabbed one end of the trunk. I sighed, and grabbed my end, and we were off. While walking across the street I looked up at the buildings wondering which one would be my new home, and what floor?
***
Mom was sitting in the business office filling out paperwork while I sat twiddling my thumbs on a chair in the hall. A few days ago, he called and introduced himself to me, “I will be your counselor during your stay at the asthma hospital. If you have any problems at any time I will be available.”
He appeared to be of amiable disposition, and his voice was very calm. I looked forward to meeting him. For now, though, I had to wait for mom to finish filling out papers, and “It’s taking forever,” I thought as I peered down the hall where there were several offices.
I leaned forward and thought about going into the office where mom was, but mom told me specifically to stay put. I could hear the muffled sound of mom’s voice followed by the muffled sound of the secretaries, followed by shuffling of paper, and then, for what seemed like eternity, the click clack of a typewriter.
What would he look like – the social worker? Would he be as nice as he sounded on the phone? I sure hoped so, because I couldn’t handle a mean person. What would the nurses be like? What would my doctors be like? And, perhaps most important, what would it be like to meat a bunch of other asthmatics who were just like me? Would they be just like me? Who would become my friend? Will I find a friend?
These thoughts rolled around in my cranium like balls on a billiards table until finally the click clacking stopped. I stood up and peered into the crack of the door and saw the tip of mom’s jeans where they covered the knees and the front of a desk with paper scattered about. Why was she still sitting there? How much paper work could there be?
The door opened and there stood mom in her blue top and blue jeans. Her dark hair set in a new perm over her beautiful phlegmatic eyes. She was a young person, only 38, but to me she was a sagacious god, a permanent barrier to any harm and the answer to all the problems of the world. I know this wasn’t the normal mom/son relationship of your typical teenager, but I wasn’t
normal by any means – I was chronically ill. Funny thing was, though, I didn’t think of myself that way. In fact, I didn’t think of myself as chronically ill until 23 years later when I’d send for, receive, and read my medical records from my stay at the asthma hospital.
“He should be here any minute now,” she said, her voice soothing.
“Who?” I said, shaking my head.
“Ric Dexter. She called him. She said he’s a tall man with a well kempt dark beard, and is really nice. She said you’d like him.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
It seemed like forever, but from around the corner appeared a man who fit the description. "
Hi, I’m Ric Dexter,” he said. “I talked with you on the phone.”
I looked at mom. She said, “Hi. I’m Alice Frea and this is my son, Ric.”
“Hi, Rick, I hope you are as excited as I hope you are,” he said. “Let’s get rid of this trunk, and then I’ll take you on a tour. Then I’ll show you your new room and introduce you to your new room mate.”
Lamely, all I could think to say was: “Okay.”
He grabbed one handle of the trunk while mom and I looked on. “Normally I’d say your son should grab that other handle,” he said, “But he doesn’t look so well right now.”
I took a deep breath as I watched mom grab the handle and HEAVE the trunk. I lagged behind Ric and mom. We were walking down the hall, through a door I suspected would take us back out into the cool winter air that was Denver, Colorado. But the door took us to a hallway that wended this way and that, through this door and that door, until finally we were in some sort of lobby that smelled of cooked bacon.
“This is the lobby of the Goodman building,” he said. He pointed left at a set of see through doors where I could see what appeared to be a restaurant with a few people seated at many tables eating what I suspected was bacon and eggs and toast and whatever came on the early morning menu. “That’s the cafeteria,” he said. He peered down at me. “You won’t be eating here, Ric.” He looked up at mom. “But you will become really familiar with the food here, which is pretty decent for a hospital.”
“I never had good hospital food before,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue.
“Around this corner,” Ric said, “ ah here it is, is the elevator that will take us to the 7th floor where you will be staying.”
He pushed the little round, red button. Ric continued to explain about the hospital to mom and me, and mom occasionally responded with an “uhum,” or “okay, I see.” I stood by the elevator door listening to the thump-thump of my heart in my chest. I wondered if mom and Ric could here it
“This is 7-Goodman,” he said as the door swung open revealing a long hall with bright orange carpet. “This is where my office is,” he said as we passed a window revealing offices set apart by dividers. He opened the door.
“Hi, Sarah,” he said. “This is Ric Frea and his mother Alice.” Sarah was a heavyset lady with dark, curly hair. She smiled pleasantly and offered a hand, which I took. “You will see her several times a week as many of your appointments will be with me and Linda.”
“Who’s Linda?” I asked. “She’s one of your doctors. Her office is right next to mine.” He pointed to an office that had “Ric Dexter” printed on the door. Then he pointed to a door that had “Linda
Hepper” printed on it.
“Okay,” he said, “I can show you around here later. I suppose you want to meet some kids. Right” He patted me on the shoulder and he walked to the door and opened it. “Come on. It’s time to have some fun.”
I felt a lump in my throat as I stepped back into the hallway and waited for mom and Ric to take the lead. I then followed Ric down the hall to a capacious room with the same bright orange carpet that filled the hall. To my right was a large nurses station. Two nurses were sitting there with their heads stuffed into charts.
The majority of the room was filled with square, white tables with chairs pushed neatly in place. Straight ahead I saw a pool table. The long wall to my right was replete with several doors and windows blocked by curtains on the other side. The same scene was on the opposite, Western wall.
A bulletin board on the Western wall had a head of Beetle Baily and Garfield with the words, “WELCOME TO 7-GOODMAN” neatly printed between them. Under that was written, “My way of drawing Garfield. I call him Crashfield.”
While I was busy looking around the room, I didn’t notice the nurses had noticed us and had were now standing beside us. Mom and Ric set down the trunk.
"This is Karen," Ric said, introducing me to the first nurse. She was a young, fine looking curly haired nurse. She bent down before me so I could see right into her pretty blue eyes. She said, "You're blue!
"We better consider this a code blue," said a short, pudgy nurse in a white dress who stood behind Karen. Her nametag read Linda.
Karen grabbed my hand, and nearly dragged me across the room. "Have a seat," she said motioning to a chair by the wesst side of the lobby (which I later would learn was the girl's side)You need a treatment NOW."
Mom followed close behind. She kept her distance as Karen took my vitals while Linda disappeared somewhere behind the nurses station. I groaned as the pressure from the sphygmomemometer exceeded my pain threshold on my right forearm.
“Sorry,” Karen said, “We like to start out high when we have new patients.”
While I listened to the air leave the sphygmomanometer, I looked over Karen’s rich head of hair at mom and Ric. Ric stood there with a cool expression on his face, as though he had been through this many times. Mom looked worried.
My mom recounted her anxieties in a recent email:
"Here we were at the leading asthma institution in the world and they were running a code blue on you. If they were taking it that seriously, it meant you really were THAT bad."
“Ric wanted to take me on a tour,” I said to the nurses, vaguely hoping it might get me out of this predicament.
“Ric understands that we need to do our jobs,” Linda said. She stood beside me now holding a nebulizer. She plugged it into the compressor that sat on a table. “Right Ric?”
She clicked the nebulizer on so it hummed audibly. Over the hum I could barely hear Ric. “I certainly do. Hey, I’m going to go back to my office while you finish up here. When you are done you can call me and I’ll finish the tour. I’ll put the trunk in Ric's room.”
“Great,” mom said. “Thank for—“
The rest of that conversation was lost as Linda blocked my view of mom and Ric, turned on the compressor, and the nebulizer rumbled to life. She then handed me the misting nebulizer.
"I feel fine," I said.
"You're just used to it," Karen said.
"I feel fine," I thought, forcibly preventing myself from rolling my eyes.
I put the misting mouthpiece into my mouth the way I did many times before in hospitals.
"Sit straight," Karen said, "Your stomach should go out when you breathe in slowly through your mouth, inhaling the white mist. Exhale slowly through your nose."
"I know all that," I said.
"We're going to re-teach you many things," Linda said.
"Plug your nose when you inhale," Karen said, "When you inhale count to three, when you exhale count to six... sit up straight... Ric, sit up straight."
Lots of rules for one silly treatment, I thought. But these were the rules I had to follow for the next 6-8 weeks. I sure so hope I'm out of here in 6-8 weeks.
Finally the treatment was done. "Shake it good," Karen said. "You want to get the most medicine you can out of it."
Several minutes later the comperssor was off and I watched as a petite, dark haired lady in a brown dress walked up to mom. "I'm Dr. Betty," she said, "I'll be your son's doctor. We'll take good care of him."
"That's what we're hoping," mom said, and she told Betty about the asthma attack I had last night
"By the looks of things here," Dr. Betty said, "You should have brought him in. In fact, he should have been in a hospital the past week. She looked mom in the eyes, "Really, HE IS THAT BAD. I just want you to know you did the right thing bringing him here."
Finally, after an hour with the doctor, the smell of spaghetti was in the air and a congregation of asthmatic kids of all sizes shuffled in one by one for lunch and noon meds.
I barely had a chance to meet the other kids when Karen called me to the nurse’s station where Ric was standing. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see your room mate, but how about if we finish our tour now that you’re feeling better?”
He took me to a door on the east side of the room. “This is the boy’s rooms,” he said.
"This place is clean for a boy's dorm," mom said as she entered the room and looked around. I followed closely behind.
"Well," Ric said, "We have a level system here. If the kids follow the rules they can move up to honors and get special privileges. It's a good incentive to keep your room clean." He smiled and looked at me.
On the far side of the room, the eastern side, the wall was basically a huge window with a view of the city around the hospital set amid overcast skies. "If you look north," he pointed, "you can see the Rockies on a clear day."
I followed him to the next room where the bed by the window was unkempt, and books and papers scattered about. "Eric is your room mate. He's a good kid, but he's kind of sloppy."
There were two other beds in the room. "The one by the door is yours," he said. "You have to be close to the nurses until you move up to the next level. If you get to honors you can pick your own bed and even have a chance to get a TV."
After showing me around the boy’s rooms Ric showed mom and I around the rest of the hospital. By the time we were back on 7-Goodman the other kids slowly carted into the room. A plump black kid, who would later introduce himself as Willie, was playing pool with another boy with messy black hair.
“Hey, there’s your room mate,” Ric said. I looked around the room at all the kids that were now scattered about, two boys were sitting at tables involved in a project that was perhaps homework, a conglomeration of girls were standing in the far corner perhaps chattering about the latest gossip, and perhaps the topic of the day was, “Who is the new boy? Gosh, will he turn out to be a cool kid or a chump?”
Ric led mom and me to the pool table to where the messy haired kid was aiming his cue at the black ball. Click. “Aha, I won!” he yelled as the black eight ball bounded into a corner pocket. “Finally I beat you.”
“Ah, that’s fine,” Willie said, “We’re just having fun.”
“Fun, my butt. It’s all about winning.” The messy haired boy’s grin filled his face as he twirled his pool stick over his head.
“Hey, Eric, how’s it going,” Ric said. The pool stick flew out of Eric’s hand and clattered on the floor.
“What? Who?” His smile instantly wiped away and filled with an expression of concern.
“I want you to meat someone.” Ric motioned for me to move forward. “This is Ric Frea
"This is your new roommate. Rick, this is Eric Groch.”
I offered my hand, but Eric walked away. He bent down, picked up his pool stick, and leaned on the table, facing the door to his –and my—room.
Beside me mom was standing with her camera out. She tried to take a picture of Eric, but he quickly darted out of the range of the camera. Mom aimed through the camera again, but he darted, ducked under the pool table. The camera clicked. The picture of the pool stick and parts of Eric’s red shirt still show in the picture today, the only one of him I have.
Only fitting, though, as he would turn out to be a big thorn in my side – a drug addict, criminal mind moron you might say. The kind of person no mom would ever want her son to meat, and here I was his roommate.
Willie said, "Well, if you're not going to play pool, Rick can play."
"Cool," I said, "I'll play."
Eric plopped himself out from under the table, but when he saw my mom was eagerly standing by waiting to snap another picture, back under he went. An ominous sign of the chump Eric would turn out to be.
Willie would turn out to be a good pal.
(Dean and his mom and dad were standing nearby. Mom talked with his mother. Introduced me to Dean, who was admitted the day before. The next day mom and Dean’s parents went shopping while I participated in an array of tests.)
Later that day, after a ton of appointments with doctors and testing, mom asked my doctor if she could take me to the museum. Dr. Betty said I was too unstable. I understood, but it was disappointing none-the-less considering mom was in town five days and I couldn't do anything with her.
Finally, on the 14th of January, I kissed her good-bye. I really didn’t have a lot of time those initial days to be homesick as the activities were abounding. Still there were some dark moments.
This was not a normal hospital where you sat in bed all day. It was more of an institution where you went about your normal daily activities, which were blended in with various tests and appointments. The intent was to get our asthma under control in the process of making us gallant asthmatics.
The next morning I got up at 6 a.m. and walked out to the lobby in my jimmies. A short, curly haired blonde female teenager I had yet to be introduced to was taking a breathing treatment. I could hear the soft audible purr of the machine.
“I can see your underwear,” Eric teased. “Hey everybody, you can see Rick's underwear through his witto jimmies.”
Of course growing up with four brothers I didn’t care, and proceeded to the nurse’s station. The night nurse placed three pills on the counter. “this one here tastes really bad, so you might want to take it with grape juice,” she said.
The grape juice was good, but that pill tasted NASTY at the back of my throat regardless. It was the steroid pill. Even through the strong grape flavor there was nothing I could do to prevent the pill from sliding over the sour receptors of my tongue.
The other pill was Theo-Dur, a bronchodilator in pill form. That pill was relatively bulky, but I had no trouble getting it down.
“Can I take my treatment now?” I asked. I was tight.
“Well, you are gonna have to wait a while. Deana is taking a treatment now, and then comes Eric, Dean, Willie and then Stan. They were up before you. If you want to take a treatment first, you’re going to have to get up a lot earlier than this.”
“Oh, come on. I need one now.”
“Well, you should think about that before you sleep in,” she said, as she set the next kid’s meds on the counter.
“But I didn’t’ sleep in. I’m up right on time.”
“Well, you’ll have to reconsider.”
I sat in a chair by the door of my room while I waited for my turn on the nebulizer. Finally Stan sat in the treatment chair. Another girl was in the other treatment chair. I walked to the med room behind the nurse’s station. Here, on a counter, were several brown, glass bottles of medicine.
I filed through cardboard papers in a box to the right and pulled out the one with my name on it. Listed on the card was the meds I was supposed to take in the nebulizer: Alupent 0.3cc and Atrovent 0.5mg. As I was reading the card Cathy, my head nurse, came into the room and poked her head over my shoulder. Willie was also in the room doing something with his nebulizer, but I paid him no attention.
“I’ll just watch you do it today,” she said. Before this day she drew up the meds and I watched. So this was progress.
To the left, on a rack hanging on the wall, were plastic bags with our nebs in them. I grabbed the one with my name, heart thumping but only because I had cute Cathy breathing down my shoulder, and dumped out the contents on the counter. I set it up so the cup was open.
I grabbed the syringe and set it in front of me. I reached for the large, brown bottle of Atrovent and twisted the cap until it was off. On the inside of the cap was a black squeeze bulb. I squeezed up the correct dose as Karen showed me the earlier, and squeezed it into the nebulizer cup. I did the same with the Alupent.
The treatment now together, I walked back to the lobby. Cathy followed me out of the med room, but instead of following me to the treatment chair she went behind the nurses station. My chest was tight. I was audibly wheezing. I was huffing as I walked by the nurse’s station. Stan still had his hand over his nostrils and the neb in his mouth, but I could hear it was close to finished.
“John, can I talk with you,” Cathy said.
I approached her. As I did so Stan got up and another kid took his place in the treatment chair. I had missed my turn. Thank you very much, Cathy. How the heck could I miss my turn when no one came into the med room the whole time I was in there.
On a table near the nebulizer three girls were seated and giggling. Al three were looking at me. One of them got up, giggling the whole way, and walked to the med room.
“John,” Cathy was leaning on the counter looking at me. She whispered as I stood next to and leaned on the counter. I could not hear what she said, so I leaned in the same time she did. We were nearly face-to-face. “I didn’t want to say this in the med room in front of Willie.” She paused and held back a smile before she finished. “First of all, you really ought to wear a bathrobe over your pajamas. Either that or you should get dressed before you come out here for your meds in the morning. We can all see your underwear through your pajamas.”
“You already said that,” I said.
“Well, I guess you didn’t hear me. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said. “I hear you. Tomorrow I’ll get up earlier. What time is good?”
“Well, if you want to get up before the other kids, you better be here by 5:30. You don’t have to, it’s your choice. Remember, you can take your morning treatment anytime between 5:30 and 6:30. But if you need a treatment as bad as you do, you ought to be up earlier.”
“Okay,” I said. From now on the other kids are gonna wait for me.
I turned and started for the nebulizer. Stan was STILL puffing on that thing. Is there anything coming out? I don’t see any mist. I turned to Cathy who was still leaning on the counter looking at me. “Cathy?”
“Yes.” She let her smile show this time. You look darn good-looking for a nurse. I wonder how old you are.
“How did Stan beat me to the treatment chair. I didn’t see him in the med room.”
“He was up earlier and prepared his treatment so he was ready to go. You can do that to if you want.”
The next day my alarm went off at 5 a.m. sharp. I leaned across my bed, hit the off button, and could hear my room mate snoring, his radio still blaring. I hopped out of bed in my pajamas, and I grabbed my green fluffy bathrobe I had set on my nightstand. As I opened the door to the lobby I saw there were no kids up yet. I had all the med room and the nebulizers to myself.
When 5:30 arrived I had my butt in the nebulizer seat. From this point on the other kids had to wait for me.
***
It was my responsibility to know when my meds were due and to take them as instructed. If I missed one dose, or used improper technique, I would lose my allowance for the week. Without allowance I’d have no money to spend at the weekly field trip. (Which didn't matter at this point anyway because Dr. Betty wouldn’t allow me to go even if I had the points.)
The point sheet is what I used to keep track of my progress. On it was all the things I had accomplished in a day. If I lost it, that was like losing all my points. And it is points that determined how I moved up the levels.
As I popped my pills with grape juice, I looked up at the board behind the nurse’s station. Dean’s name and mine were printed on the bottom written in blue marker, while all the other kid’s names were written in black. Next to our names was written the level we were on. My level was 2. Alongside the other names were 1, 2, 3, 4 or H for honors. The goal was to move up to honors, and the place no one wanted to go was level 1, because that meant no allowance and no privileges at all.
***
I followed Eric and the other kids to the elevator and down to the basement. It was time for my first day of school. I followed the other kids through the tunnels.
Mr. Rose was a nice teacher. He seemed a bit obnoxious though, but I suppose when your teaching a bunch of chronically ill kids you have to be a bit different. "We have a new student, today," he said, "This is Rick Frea. Rick, tell us about yourself."
"Um..." I said, "I'm from Michigan and I... uh... I have asthma and it got really bad and so now.. uh.. now I am here to get my asthma under control."
"As is the case with all of us, right guys?"
The class shouted in unison, "Right Mr. Rose."
A short-stout kid with loose fitting clothes and long blonde hair sat in a seat right before Mr. Rose's desk. He never stopped talking for the first 30 minutes of class. Finally Mr. Rose said, "Chico, I think that bandana of yours is tied too tight over your skull and squeezing your brain, because it sure doesn't seem to be working today."
"That's because I'm hip." Chico said.
"That's because you're a dip," Mr. Rose said. "Now stop talking a minute so we can educate the rest of the class, because obviously you don't have any interest in education. I'm not even sure it's possible to educate you."
"I'm already fully educated," he chided.
"We can all see how educated you are, Chicohead. Now hush."
At noon I followed the other students back through the tunnels to 7-Goodman. The nurses gave me my noon meds. Karen was there. She told me I had appointments the rest of the day and wouldn't be going back to school.
The second day of school, and many of the days that followed, I had to leave many times for "lots of appointments, which included a PFT," according to my personal diary.
By the time I got back from testing the other kids were done with school. I was told after school was supposed to be our time to relax, do homework or socialize, but up to this day I never had a chance to do either.
After dinner, at 7.pm., it was time for aerobics. I was told I had to go down to participate, but I wasn't able to do anything physical. It surely wasn't fun standing there while the other kids were playing kick ball.
***
The next day I talked to Dr. Betty between appointments and she said I could participate in aerobics if I wanted to that night. But, when I did, my chest got tight, I started to wheeze, and one of the kids had to show me how to get back to 7-Goodman.
"Get an epinephrine ready," a pudgy nurse said as she started a breathing treatment and handed it to me. "Concentrate on your breathing. Sit straight. Concentrate on your breathing."
I did as I was taught those first few days. I concentrated on my breathing, and soon I was able to take in a normal breath, but it didn't come until the treatment was almost finished. I almost bought myself my first Denver Epi that night, but it wasn't needed.
The next day I had to do a barium swallow. That's a test to determine if there were any stomach abnormalities. I'm telling you, while I was there they did every test imaginable. They even did an EEG one day because I had constant headaches.
For obvious reasons I didn't do very well in school on these initial days. In my diary I kept writing, "School was boring today. I have to study for exams and I hate it." I was probably antsy about all these tests they were doing on me. Well, plus I was homesick being so far away from home.
Finally it was Friday of week two. I marked my diary: 4-6 weeks to go.
Up to this point I wasn't allowed to participate in any off campus events -- like there was any time for it anyway. Still, it was something that I was really looking forward to. I walked down to the business office during lunch break with one of the other kids and got money.
Along with seeing Ric on regular basis, I also had to see a psychologist weekly. I didn't understand it then, but she was scoping me for the psychological consequences of asthma.
Every night we either had aerobics or swimming. I had to go, but was not allowed to participate that first week. I was wheezing and my chest remained tight.
On day #13 my new friends wanted me to go to the mall with them. I "begged" Dr. Betty to let me go, and she said I could. She also said I could participate in aerobics that night.
But, as I ran around the gym trying to be normal, the asthma beast struck and I became anxious and insisted that I needed a treatment. One of my friends escorted me upstairs, "where Kathy almost had to give me an epi," according to my diary.
The next day school went great. At lunch I rushed up to the bank to withdraw money to spend at the mall, and rushed up to 7-Goodman to eat lunch and get my noon meds. I was wheezing.
After school, and still wheezing after my treatment, Dr. Betty approached me. I had a bad feeling about this.
She said, "John, I've decided you would benefit from being on steroids. We tried you on the basic meds and you don't seem to be responding. You're lips are blue as we speak. I want you to go upstairs to our hospital where we can watch you more closely."
And so slipped my good mood. Here I was at the best asthma institution in the world and my Asthma wasn’t getting any better at all -- it was getting worse.
(To be continued July 5, 2009)
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Google leads to cool reunions with old pals
I remember the last time I saw my college buddy Frank we decided this would be the last time we ever saw each other. It turned out to be true. We also knew we would not be talking on the phone either, considering during summer breaks we never did that once. It's a guy thing.Frank, Rich and I were about as close as you could get as friends. On the weekends we usually found a good party to go to, and we usually did this at the expense of studying. If there was no party to attend we would usually cut through a person's yard to bypass the fence at park where we wended through two-tracks to a place where there was an old train bridge over the river.
We carted with us a case of cheap Huber beer we purchased for $5 and drank and male bonded while our feet dangled over the edge.
We all had a teacher named Mr. Heck for science. We boarded a bus to Chicago to go on a field trip to the Museum of Natural History. We quickly did our assignment and called a taxi. In a sense, what happened next was Ferris Bueller-esque. We went to the Sear's Tower, to an old 54s, McDonalds, walked around the Hard Rock Cafe without purchasing anything but enjoying the melieu of the place, and spent time just walking around the city looking up at the cool, surreal buildings
It was memories like that that, in retrospect, make my time with Frank and Rich some of the greater memories in my life. Sure I didn't get the best grades, but sometimes the creation of great friendships are more important.
In 1993 was the last time I saw Rich. I imagine it was at a party at his Fraternity House. I wanted to join that Fraternity, but I wasn't as cool as Rich, nor did I have the funds to do so.
Fifteen years later we had the Internet. One night I was sitting around talking with my friends in the critical care about how it would be really hard to lose track of great friends this day and age with facebook and email. That was when it occured to me I should Google my old college buddies.
I knew Frank had a job as a journalist out of College, but I was surprised to see his picture over the word "lawyer." I emailed him: "Are you the same Rich who..." He was. I found Rich and emailed him too.
As I was waiting in Tiger Stadium to meat Rich, a million ideas of what he might look like today swept through my brain. Would he be 350 pounds? Woudl he still have that lock of red hair? Would he be unrecognizable? Would we have anything to talk about.
Yet many of my friends who actually had 20 year high school reunions say that people don't look much different 20 years later. Likewise, if you were good chums back then your conversations would take off as the last time you saw him. And that was the case with Rich and me.
The world will change immsely thanks to the Internet, and if keeping in touch with great friends is one of the advantages, then it will be for the better.
Friday, June 26, 2009
A surreal day: just the boy & me in Detroit
It was a father son vacation. Since the girls seem to get all the attention in this family, I thought it would be cool to have a father son outing. Jordan chose a Tiger's game.I'm one of those rare people who love a nice ride with good music, daydreams, and discussions with the boy about the Tigers. He was pumped and eager to get autographs.
Coming from a small town where summer vacationers usually make a mere one or two stoplights a two minute longer wait, driving around the big city is a slight stressor. Jordan and I were going to meet up with a buddy of mine from college I hadn't seen in 20 years, but finding his place was turning into a major challenge -- like finding a needle in a haystack. And since I had lost my cell phone I couldn't call him.
Jordan was geared up with his Detroit Tiger shirt and hat on, and his Detroit Tiger backpack filled with his glove, baseball cards and a bat he wants to get signed.
He's eager and full of anticipation. "I'm going to get Verlander, Porcello and Jackson to sign my glove," he said. "So quit driving around and just park so we can get to the stadium before it's too late to get autographs."
I drove around the streets Rich directed me to and still I couldn't find his building. So, finally, Jordan said, "Dad, just pull into that parking lot right there. It's only $10. Forget about your friend."
I parked. We walked the five minute journey to the park. It was surreal walk for country folks as we walked below the towering historical buildings not knowing which one was which, only knowing Comerica Park was "that way." And as we walk up to the park you can actually see right in. It's a cool sight. Two hours before the game some folks were already sitting atop buildings outside the stadium, yet inside most seats were empty.
One guy with missing teeth walked up to us and asked if we needed tickets. I asked if he knew where there might be a pay phone, and he said, "That's funny you ask, because I don't think there are any payphones at all in downtown Detroit. You'd think there would be, hey?"
Inside the park Jordan insisted I find my pay phone on my own, because he was going to find the Tiger dugout and get some autographs. "Dad, I'll just meet you in our seats when the game starts. I can't waste time. I have to get my autographs."
I walked him to the Tiger dugout.
At the customer service desk the good folks there let me make a call to Rich for free. That impressed me. It doesn't take much to impress me. I met Rich at the gate and slid him his ticket through the a barred gate (which was unlocked by the way).
As I waited for him, I wondered if I would be able to pick him out of a crowd. Then I saw this guy walking around confused and figured that must be him. I waved.
While we were catching up behind Jordan as he was itching to get Nate Robertson's autograph, beads of sweat were dripping down my forehead as the sun was beating down on us. I had decided if this heat persisted, I was not going to make it through a three hour long game.
It was worth standing in the scorching heat, though, as Jordan eventually powered himself to the fence and hefted his glove and Sharpie for Nate Robertson to sign. Once he had it we were ordered to go to our seats.
When I ordered the tickets I had no idea our tickets were at the very top of the upper deck over third base, last row, under the awning, where there was a cool breeze as though a fan were blowing on us. We decided these Bob Euchre seats were the best seats in the entire stadium.
And when the rain started to fall in the 8th inning, every body in the stadium got wet but us. All we got was a nice cool breeze. It was great. And the game was great.
The boy was bound and determined the Tigers were going to win, and this determination reminded the dad of when he was a boy and big time Tiger fan. When I was 12 I remember willing the Tigers to many victories.
It's almost as though you JUST KNOW they are going to win. I had that feeling that my boy was going to WILL the Tigers to a victory on this night. So when the Tigers were down by three after a Cub three run homer in inning one, the dad did not fret.
Almost as though it were expected, Fernando Rodney struck out the batter and the runner was stranded on second -- the Tigers won. Jordan and I led Rich to our car, and, ironically, it turned out to be parked right across the street from Rich's pad. Was this another one of the boy's miracles. Do boys have that kind of power?
Rich walked Jordan and I around Detroit. A few beggars approached us, and one probably tried to pick my pocket as he patted me on the back saying, "That's okay, I understand." Unfortunately for him I keep my wallet in my front pocket when I'm in Detroit.
Just walking around Detroit itself is surreal. It almost seems like there is nothing in Detroit but old buildings, but Rich took us into one plain set of doors, and inside was this magnanimous and capacious indoor room with a large towering water fountain. It was the main floor of a towering office building, and, best of all, it was air conditioned.
Also inside the building was Hard Rock Cafe. It was too expensive for us to eat there, but we entered anyway just to be cool. Then we ate at a coney place I can't remember the name of. Rich said it was one of the most famous coney places in the world.
Back at Rich's we boarded an elevator that was hot, stuffy, claustrophobic and run by a hand crank. I had never seen such an ancient elevator. On the way up I vowed I would not take it on the way down. Yet Rich's loft was really cool, and even Jordan was impressed. It was a spacious pad with open windows (no screens) and a warm breeze blowing through. He had an awesome view of the city.
"As I listen to Tiger games there is a five second delay," Rich said. "So I can actually hear the cheer through the windows before I hear the announcers describing what happened on the radio. I actually can tell what each cheer is for. If someone hits a home run, I usually know it before the announcers tell us. It's really neat."
Facing one of the windows were two antique blue seats that Rich said were from the old Tiger Stadium. Jordan and I sat in them just to be cool, and checked out the view.
On the way to my brother's Jordan said, "Dad, your friend Rich turned out to be a really cool guy. We should meet him again next year."
I'll take it from that Jordan had a great time in Detroit. As soon as we were at my brothers he borrowed a Blackberry and called his mother. It was a great feeling listening to him gloat to her about all the cool things he did that day. I think it's safe to say: mission accomplished. Thanks Rich.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The way to succeed is to stroke egos
My son came to me lately and told me that Obama hypnotised America into voting for him. He even took me to the computer and showed me an array of websites and commercials on UTube dedicated to trying to convince America that this is true.
So my son googled (with my permission of course) the hypnotic methods Obama supposedly used, and he started studying them. So now, as a joke more than anything, whenever my son wants me to do something, he uses the technique he learned. Well, of course they never work on me.
Later I explained to my son that if you really want people to do the things you want, if you really want to succeed in life, you should read a book like "How to Have Confidence and Power in Dealing with People," by Les Giblon. Sure it's the kind of self help book he hates to read, but it would provide tips to succeed, or to get your way in life, that are far better than through hypnotism -- which only a few can master (if it works at all).
In this book Giblin explains that the way to succeed in life in today's world is to build up the ego of the other person. He says this works because, no matter or not we as humans want to admit this, the most important person in your life is YOU. And YOU have an ego whether you want to admit it or not. And YOU love it when someone strokes your ego. In other words, all we humans have an innate desire for acceptance.
he writes that all people who succeed, all poeple who are great sales people, all are very good at stroking the egos of other people. He says it is not their great speaking ability that makes these people successful, it is their ability to stroke egos.
Thus, if you want to deal with people, you should remember the following:
He gives one great examle. Say you walk into a hotel on the 4th of July, and the desk clerk says the hotel is full. Instead of being irritated with the desk clerk and telling him he is a bumbling idiot, you should say something like, "I know your hotel is full, but I bet if there is anyone in the world who can find me a room tonight it is you."
Giblin writes that it is this type of skill that is responsible for people succeedin in life in the year 2009, as opposed to technical wisdom. You can be the smartest RT when it comes to how to work a ventilator and how to draw blood or give a breathing treatment, but it is your ability to communicate that will make you successful.
He writes that the people who have the greatest success in life are not the "people you know with the most brains... (but) those who 'have a way' with other people."
He writes, "There are millions of people today who are self-conscious, shy, timid, ill at ease in social situations, who feel inferior and never realize that their real problem is a human relations problem. It never seems to get across to them that their failure as a personality is really a failure in learning to deal successfully with other poeple."
Yet there are people on the opposite end of the spectrum, those who are "bossy." They wonder why no one listens to them, and their employees don't appreciate them, or cooperate with their wishes, and why they always hve to "force people into line.... they force cooperation... force people to cooperate with them. They cannot force other people to like them, and they never really get what they want because they have never mastered the art of dealing with other people."
Some people claim that this "choleric" person is too confident, and so they try to put this person in his or her place. The truth is, Giblin writes, is that this person lacks confidence. And this lack of confidence results in him causing trouble for other people. Thus, as he writes, a "low self esteem causes friction and trouble."
Thus, the best way of dealing with trouble makers is to help him like himself better. You need to feed his ego. You need to make him feel better about himself. And, in return, he will treat you better than he treats any one else.
Give that person a reason to like you. Give him a personal reason to give you what you want. You do not need to be a talkative person to get what you want from people and to succeed in life. Al you need is the skill of stroking egos.
So my son googled (with my permission of course) the hypnotic methods Obama supposedly used, and he started studying them. So now, as a joke more than anything, whenever my son wants me to do something, he uses the technique he learned. Well, of course they never work on me.
Later I explained to my son that if you really want people to do the things you want, if you really want to succeed in life, you should read a book like "How to Have Confidence and Power in Dealing with People," by Les Giblon. Sure it's the kind of self help book he hates to read, but it would provide tips to succeed, or to get your way in life, that are far better than through hypnotism -- which only a few can master (if it works at all).
In this book Giblin explains that the way to succeed in life in today's world is to build up the ego of the other person. He says this works because, no matter or not we as humans want to admit this, the most important person in your life is YOU. And YOU have an ego whether you want to admit it or not. And YOU love it when someone strokes your ego. In other words, all we humans have an innate desire for acceptance.
he writes that all people who succeed, all poeple who are great sales people, all are very good at stroking the egos of other people. He says it is not their great speaking ability that makes these people successful, it is their ability to stroke egos.
Thus, if you want to deal with people, you should remember the following:
- We are all egoists
- We are all more interested in ourselves than in anything else in the world.
- Every person you meet wants to feel important, and to 'amount to something'
- There is a craving in every human being for the approval of others, so that he can approve of himself.
He gives one great examle. Say you walk into a hotel on the 4th of July, and the desk clerk says the hotel is full. Instead of being irritated with the desk clerk and telling him he is a bumbling idiot, you should say something like, "I know your hotel is full, but I bet if there is anyone in the world who can find me a room tonight it is you."
Giblin writes that it is this type of skill that is responsible for people succeedin in life in the year 2009, as opposed to technical wisdom. You can be the smartest RT when it comes to how to work a ventilator and how to draw blood or give a breathing treatment, but it is your ability to communicate that will make you successful.
He writes that the people who have the greatest success in life are not the "people you know with the most brains... (but) those who 'have a way' with other people."
He writes, "There are millions of people today who are self-conscious, shy, timid, ill at ease in social situations, who feel inferior and never realize that their real problem is a human relations problem. It never seems to get across to them that their failure as a personality is really a failure in learning to deal successfully with other poeple."
Yet there are people on the opposite end of the spectrum, those who are "bossy." They wonder why no one listens to them, and their employees don't appreciate them, or cooperate with their wishes, and why they always hve to "force people into line.... they force cooperation... force people to cooperate with them. They cannot force other people to like them, and they never really get what they want because they have never mastered the art of dealing with other people."
Some people claim that this "choleric" person is too confident, and so they try to put this person in his or her place. The truth is, Giblin writes, is that this person lacks confidence. And this lack of confidence results in him causing trouble for other people. Thus, as he writes, a "low self esteem causes friction and trouble."
Thus, the best way of dealing with trouble makers is to help him like himself better. You need to feed his ego. You need to make him feel better about himself. And, in return, he will treat you better than he treats any one else.
Give that person a reason to like you. Give him a personal reason to give you what you want. You do not need to be a talkative person to get what you want from people and to succeed in life. Al you need is the skill of stroking egos.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Hard work is the only way to succeed in life
I answered quite a few questions the past couple weeks about surviving in the field of respiratory therapy, either in RT school or in the RT Cave. I described that success is not defined by how smart you are, but by how hard you work.
Of course this is common sense, but I did find this described in greater detail in a book I found in my basement: "The Psychologist's book of Self Tests." Thus, as the author describes, a high IQ score does not necessarily equate to success:
Of course this is common sense, but I did find this described in greater detail in a book I found in my basement: "The Psychologist's book of Self Tests." Thus, as the author describes, a high IQ score does not necessarily equate to success:
So, there you have it. Whether or not you succeed as an RT, or any other field for that matter, is not determined by how intelligent you are, it is determined by how hard you work.So, what does it mean if you obtained a high score on this test? Consider yourself fortunate. It is a clear advantage to be born intelligent. People with high IQ scores get better grades in school, score better on achievement tests, go further i school, and have a greater likelihood of having a professional career. Also, there is a tendency for extremely bright people to have higher self-esteem, more energy, more athletic ability, happier marriages, and even better sex lives. These people also have a lower than average incidence of a variety of problems, including severe psychological problems, alcoholism, and criminality. Of course there are exceptions, but taken as a whole, highly intelligent people do stand out in a number of ways.
You high scorers shouldn't be too smug, though. A high IQ score is by no means a guarantee of success. Every year countless college students with impressive Colllege Board Scores flunk out of school while their modestly endowed peers make the Deans list... the reality is that qualities such as motivation, perseverance, and curiosity more than make up for a modest IQ score. What you do with your life is much more important than how you score on a standardized test.
As evidence of the importance of personality characteristics, it has been demonstrated that while intelligence does predict one's level of occupational status, it does not predict one's degree of success within a particular occupation level. So if you are bright enough to make it through medical school, for example, you have as much of a chance to be a successful physician as your more intelligent classmates. It does require a certain level of intelligence to master complex material, but as long as you have the requisite mental ability, your personal qualities will then determine how good you are in your chosen field.
Monday, June 22, 2009
What causes asthma: pollution or cleanliness?
Several months ago I wrote a post called, "Is there a link between asthma and air pollution," in which I posed the question to you in a poll: "Does air pollution cause asthma?" I believe it was something like 67% of my readers said they did believe pollution does cause asthma.I purposely left my question vague because I have noted many people confuse "cause" and trigger." Bellow I will pose a few definitions:
Asthma cause: Anything that turns on the asthma gene causing a person to develop asthma.
Asthma trigger: Anything that results in a person having an asthma attack. There are many asthma triggers, as you can see by this link here.
I think the following stat from AAAAI.com had many people drawing to the conclusion that pollution caused asthma:
- The prevalence of asthma increased 75% from 1980-1994.3
- Asthma rates in children under the age of five have increased more than 160% from 1980-1994.3
- It is estimated that the number of people with asthma will grow by more than 100 million by 2025.2
- And, not mentioned at AAAAI.com is the statistic that a majority of the 3,384 asthma deaths, and a majority of cases of asthma near death experiences occur in cities, where pollution rates tend to be higher.
All of these statistics had many people leaning toward the notion that pollution causes asthma. Now, while this "theory" still could be true, many statistics and pollution studies done over the past 15 years show that even in cities where pollution rates have declined, asthma rates have continued to increase.
So, is the politically correct notion that pollution causes asthma true? It is possible, as there was a new study released recently that showed that moms who breath in polluted air before their child is born are more likely to give birth to children with asthma.
However, more and more scientists have been questioning the notion that pollution causes asthma, and looking at a new theory that says that it isn't so much pollution that turns on the asthma gene, but the fact that we are too clean.
It was in the late 1990s that scientists started looking at asthma statistics world wide that showed impoverished nations where most people lived on farms had the same allergens and pollution levels of U.S. cities, yet had lower rates of asthma
These statistics sent scientists to theorize that perhaps asthma is spreading so fast because modern technology, showers, antibacterial soap, antibiotics and the like are also spreading fast. They came to suspect that asthma is caused because we are to clean.
This was also the conclusion draw after studies showed the following resulted in fewer incidences of asthma:
- Children who are breast fed
- Children who attend day cares
- Children of large families
- Children who do not take antibiotics in first three months of life
- Children who are not born by c-section
In all these cases, children are exposed to bacteria a newborns immune system needs to develop properly.
This theory, now poplar in the scientific community, is called The Hygiene Hypothesis. I wrote a post about this recently, and if you click here I will morph you to my latest asthma post.
Keep in mind here I am not drawing to any conclusions here, just placing all the latest wisdom on the table. When you have are finished you can participate in the poll at the top of my blog. I want to see if your opinion as to what causes asthma has changed.
Thank you, and have a wonderful day.
The Hygiene Hypothesis: Does Cleanliness Cause Asthma? by Rick Frea Wednesday, June 17, 2009 @ HealthCentral.com
Asthma-like symptoms were recorded in the earliest forms of writings going all the way back 5,000 years. With all that history, it's hard to believe we only recently started coming up with viable "guesses" as to why some people develop asthma. My favorite guess is the hygiene hypothesis.
The ancient Romans found a link between cleanliness and disease, and created aquaducts to supply clean water and bath houses to give people a place to wash up. When bacteria were discovered in the 1800s, the Roman's were proven correct.
Since the discovery and understanding of how germs cause disease, there has been an effort by society to stay clean. But is it possible that we have become so clean that we have opened ourselves up to suffering new kinds of diseases? Is it possible that civilization causes asthma? According to the Hygiene Hypothesis, the answer is yes.
Many scientists speculated that the same things that trigger acute asthma attacks are the same things that cause asthma. In that sense, many scientists looked at pollution as a main cause. Asthma rates increased by 75% between 1980 and 1995. Most asthma deaths (80.2% according 1989 stats) occured in highly populated urban areas as well.
However, while pollution has been proven to "trigger" asthma, other studies show that in areas where pollution levels are decreasing asthma rates are still on the rise.
This research encouraged David P. Strachan to look in a unique direction. He made an observation that in Third World nations where people lived in poverty, on farms, and were rarely innoculated from infectious disease, asthma rates were lower than in developed nations like the U.S., Europe and Australia with high concentrations of the population living in urban areas and high rates of childhood vaccination.
He also observed that the same pollution and allergens that exist where asthma rates are low also exist in places where asthma rates are high.
He then proposed the Hygiene Hypothesis in the British Medical Journal in 1989. This hypothesis, or educated guess, is that the asthma gene is not turned on because we are too dirty, but because we are too clean. He came to this conclusion after looking at studies that revealed people who live near farm animals were less likely to develop asthma. Since people in many Third World nations work in farming or are often around animals, they are exposed to bacteria and parasites common around these animals.
Likewise, studies revealed people exposed to pig and cattle parasites and bacteria in the first three months of life (when their immune system is still developing) were less likely to get asthma. According to The Medical College Of Wisconsin, these studies and observations "led several researchers to conclude that organisms in cattle dust and manure may be the stimuli that their immune systems needed to fight off asthma."
Also, several studies (like this one) showed that children exposed to pet dander (proteins in pet saliva and skin, but not pet hair) were less likely to develop asthma. This seems counterintuitive, since it is common (and correect) advice for people and children with asthma and allergies to either get rid of their pets or to, at least, keep them out of the bedroom and off the furniture.
So why would this be? Consider this: asthma is an autoimmune disease. When we are born, our immune systems are still developing. Considering that our immune system doesn't fully mature until we are about 3 months old, it is prior to this time that something "might" occur to turn the so-called asthma gene on -- if a person has the asthma gene.
The hygiene hypothesis surmises that if we are not exposed to certain bacteria and parasites for our immune systems to battle, our immune systems get "bored" and may, instead, react to and create antibodies against normally harmless substances such as pollen and dust, i.e. allergens.
Once the asthma gene is turned on, you, more than likely, will have asthma. Many people will notice asthma symptoms in childhood as they are exposed to their asthma triggers. However, many others will have symptoms so mild during childhood they won't even realize they have it until they are adults (adult onset asthma).
Per this hypothesis, there are people that may be at higher risk of developing asthma as well as events more likely to trigger its development, such as:
- Premature babies (they have immature immune systems)
- Respiratory Syncitial Virus
- Antibiotic usage in the first months (they kill normal bacteria as well as bad bugs)
- Children born by C-section (no exposure to bacteria in the vaginal canal)
- Not breast feeding (no exposure to bacteria from mom)
- Smoke inhalation
- Obese mothers (fat may hamper development of the lungs)
- Pregnant women breathing pollutants (may cause asthma in the womb)
- Stress
However awkward this sounds, it all makes sense to me. What do you think?
Intelligence does not determine success
I answered quite a few questions the past couple weeks about surviving in the field of respiratory therapy, either in RT school or in the RT Cave. I described that success is not defined by how smart you are, but by how hard you work.
Of course this is common sense, but I did find this described in greater detail in a book I found in my basement: "The Psychologist's book of Self Tests." Thus, as the author describes, a high IQ score does not necessarily equate to success:
So, what does it mean if you obtained a high score on this test? Consider yourself fortunate. It is a clear advantage to be born intelligent. People with high IQ scores get better grades in school, score better on achievement tests, go further i school, and have a greater likelihood of having a professional career. Also, there is a tendency for extremely bright people to have higher self-esteem, more energy, more athletic ability, happier marriages, and even better sex lives. These people also have a lower than average incidence of a variety of problems, including severe psychological problems, alcoholism, and criminality. Of course there are exceptions, but taken as a whole, highly intelligent people do stand out in a number of ways.
Of course this is common sense, but I did find this described in greater detail in a book I found in my basement: "The Psychologist's book of Self Tests." Thus, as the author describes, a high IQ score does not necessarily equate to success:
So, what does it mean if you obtained a high score on this test? Consider yourself fortunate. It is a clear advantage to be born intelligent. People with high IQ scores get better grades in school, score better on achievement tests, go further i school, and have a greater likelihood of having a professional career. Also, there is a tendency for extremely bright people to have higher self-esteem, more energy, more athletic ability, happier marriages, and even better sex lives. These people also have a lower than average incidence of a variety of problems, including severe psychological problems, alcoholism, and criminality. Of course there are exceptions, but taken as a whole, highly intelligent people do stand out in a number of ways.
So, there you have it. Whether or not you succeed as an RT, or any other field for that matter, is not determined by how intelligent you are, it is determined by how hard you work.You high scorers shouldn't be too smug, though. A high IQ score is by no means a guarantee of success. Every year countless college students with impressive Colllege Board Scores flunk out of school while their modestly endowed peers make the Deans list... the reality is that qualities such as motivation, perseverance, and curiosity more than make up for a modest IQ score. What you do with your life is much more important than how you score on a standardized test.
As evidence of the importance of personality characteristics, it has been demonstrated that while intelligence does predict one's level of occupational status, it does not predict one's degree of success within a particular occupation level. So if you are bright enough to make it through medical school, for example, you have as much of a chance to be a successful physician as your more intelligent classmates. It does require a certain level of intelligence to master complex material, but as long as you have the requisite mental ability, your personal qualities will then determine how good you are in your chosen field.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The asthma beast struck me down
By January 1985 my asthma was so bad my doctor's didn't know what to do for me. While I kind of took my disease in stride -- what else was I to do? -- my doctors and parents feared for my life. The decision was made I was going to Denver to a hospital that specialized in asthma.
On January 4, 1984, I celebrated my 14th birthday playing football under the warm Florida sun. The next day, on the way back to Michigan, the beast that is asthma grabbed my lungs, gripping them hard.
I wrote about what happened next in a letter to my grandma Frea dated March 1984:
The next day I felt fine. I couldn't wait for doctor Oliver to come in and tell me I could go home. My roommate was a cool kid named Mike. He was also 14. I figured he was worse off than me because he couldn't get out of bed. His leg was broken and it was up in a sling.
We made a deal that I would control the TV clicker until noon, and then it was his turn. A grumpy old lady nurse came in to check on us, and as soon as she was gone I whipped the remote to him. We laughed.
We continued laughing as he flipped through the channels, finally landing on what was a cool movie called "Porkies." Not a kid movie, but there's "naked girls in it," Mike said.
Grumpy nurse poked her head in, and Mickey quickly turned the channel. Two boys snickered.
"What's going on in here?" she grunted.
"Nothing," we said in unison, snickering.
Grumpy nurse left to irritate some other patient, and Porkies made its way back to the screen.
Meantime, I had no idea mom was on the phone with Dr. Oliver discussing what should be done with me. While I was coping, they were worried.
On Oct.26 and Nov. 8 dad drove me back to the ER for quick visits. But the next day I was admitted yet again for two nights. "Oh, well," I wrote in my diary, "I can handle it. At least I have a good excuse not to do homework."
On November 25 dad was driving us back from a Thanksgiving vacation, and once again I lost my breath in the van. In my diary I wrote:
"This was a frustrating visit for me. The stupid doctor wouldn't give me the Susphrin shot until dad finally convinced him that's the only thing that ever worked for me. After several hours of bonding with dad, I was released. We arrived home late."
Then, a few days later after school, I sat at the kitchen bar with mom and my brother David. Mom said, "What do you think about going to a hospital just for asthmatic kids like you?"
"Um, I don't know," I said.
David said, "Wow, that would be really cool. It would be like going to camp."
"Exactly," mom said.
"How long would I have to be there?" I looked at mom, hoping she'd say a week or less.
"Well," she said, "the doctors say it would ONLY be 6-8 weeks."
"That long? Why would it be that long?"
"Dad and I heard a lot of good things about this place," mom said, "This is the number one hospital for asthma in the world, and you should be honored that they want you as a patient."
"Okay, let me think about it." I hopped off my chair and started for the living room.
"Rick, you have to do this," David said. "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity."
I paced around a few minutes, pondering hard. I had this eerie feeling whatever decision I made would be final. Then a thought occurred to me: What if I say no and the opportunity is lost forever?
"Mom," I said, walking into the kitchen. "I've decided I'll do it."
Gulp.
Mom wasted no time reaching for the phone.
I wrote in my diary once that I was having second thoughts -- just once. But that was before I was rushed to the ER twice the first week of January, 2005, for a Susphrine shot.
"Well, I would normally admit him," Dr. Oliver said the next day after I was given a Susphrine shot on the third straight day, "But since he's going to Denver in a few days, I guess I'll let you take him home."
On January 8, 1985 I boarded a plane to Denver. When I arrived at my new home the next day, the nurses called a code blue on me.
To be continued...
On January 4, 1984, I celebrated my 14th birthday playing football under the warm Florida sun. The next day, on the way back to Michigan, the beast that is asthma grabbed my lungs, gripping them hard.
I wrote about what happened next in a letter to my grandma Frea dated March 1984:
"On the way back from Florida I felt bad. I was wheezing and I simply couldn't breathe anymore. Dad stopped in Jacksonville, Indiana for the night and decided I must have been allergic to the coconuts he stashed under the seats. I was also low on Alupent.I watched the game from my hospital room with dad. While my chest was tight, the Tigers walloped KC and just the thought of that kept my mind off the beast, and my spirits high.
"I got so bad that at 8:00 dad took me to the hospital. I got an IV for an hour, aSusphrin shot, oxygen, and other medications I cannot name. I was there for four hours. I was well the next day, but after we got home and I was getting ready for bed. I gradually got worse. Again we went to the hospital at 8 p.m.
"Then I suffered for a few days. I didn't want to go back to the hospital. I was afraid if I did they would keep me. Finally I got so bad I had to tell mom, and she took me to see doctor Olivia. He gave me some meds, and sent me back home.
"I went to the hospital Sunday, Feb. 5, and I was treated by a nurse (I bet I was treated by an RT too). I got worse in the hospital. Dr. Olivia came in and said he figured I had pure asthma because I had no signs of a cold or anything like that. He put me on some new meds and almost kept me. I ended up going home that night.
"Well, that lasted until Feb. 8. I could breathe fine I thought -- just coughing. Mom called
Dr. Olivia. He told mom to take me to the hospital for a breathing treatments twice daily. Mom decided it would be easier if I just stayed over night.
"On the way to the hospital we ate lunch at a local restaurant, and I could hardly breathe when I was there. It got worse that day, and I ended up staying seven nights in the hospital. I got better every day I was there.
"The first night, though, I had a bad night. I was up over 20 times with asthma."
I was re-admitted later that month, this time my stay was five days.
Somehow I managed to stay out of trouble as the pollen season arrived. Then, on August
18, my good fortune ran out: the beast returned. It stood over me like an invisible elephant crushing my chest. I cried to dad, and he took me back to the ER for another Susphrin.
Two days later the beast was standing over me again, but this time my doctor was afraid to let me go home. He kept me locked up in a hospital room where the beast couldn't find me.
On October 2 I was looking forward to watching the Tigers play the Kansas City Royals. Before the game I decided to rummage through a trunk in the basement for a Halloween mask. There, amid the dust mites, was the beast.
Dad rushed me to the ER. "Doc," I grunted, "I either... need to be... sent home… or admitted... by seven, because.. I'm not missing the game."
The next day I felt fine. I couldn't wait for doctor Oliver to come in and tell me I could go home. My roommate was a cool kid named Mike. He was also 14. I figured he was worse off than me because he couldn't get out of bed. His leg was broken and it was up in a sling.
We made a deal that I would control the TV clicker until noon, and then it was his turn. A grumpy old lady nurse came in to check on us, and as soon as she was gone I whipped the remote to him. We laughed.
We continued laughing as he flipped through the channels, finally landing on what was a cool movie called "Porkies." Not a kid movie, but there's "naked girls in it," Mike said.
Grumpy nurse poked her head in, and Mickey quickly turned the channel. Two boys snickered.
"What's going on in here?" she grunted.
"Nothing," we said in unison, snickering.
Grumpy nurse left to irritate some other patient, and Porkies made its way back to the screen.
Meantime, I had no idea mom was on the phone with Dr. Oliver discussing what should be done with me. While I was coping, they were worried.
On Oct.26 and Nov. 8 dad drove me back to the ER for quick visits. But the next day I was admitted yet again for two nights. "Oh, well," I wrote in my diary, "I can handle it. At least I have a good excuse not to do homework."
On November 25 dad was driving us back from a Thanksgiving vacation, and once again I lost my breath in the van. In my diary I wrote:
"This was a frustrating visit for me. The stupid doctor wouldn't give me the Susphrin shot until dad finally convinced him that's the only thing that ever worked for me. After several hours of bonding with dad, I was released. We arrived home late."
Then, a few days later after school, I sat at the kitchen bar with mom and my brother David. Mom said, "What do you think about going to a hospital just for asthmatic kids like you?"
"Um, I don't know," I said.
David said, "Wow, that would be really cool. It would be like going to camp."
"Exactly," mom said.
"How long would I have to be there?" I looked at mom, hoping she'd say a week or less.
"Well," she said, "the doctors say it would ONLY be 6-8 weeks."
"That long? Why would it be that long?"
"Dad and I heard a lot of good things about this place," mom said, "This is the number one hospital for asthma in the world, and you should be honored that they want you as a patient."
"Okay, let me think about it." I hopped off my chair and started for the living room.
"Rick, you have to do this," David said. "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity."
I paced around a few minutes, pondering hard. I had this eerie feeling whatever decision I made would be final. Then a thought occurred to me: What if I say no and the opportunity is lost forever?
"Mom," I said, walking into the kitchen. "I've decided I'll do it."
Gulp.
Mom wasted no time reaching for the phone.
I wrote in my diary once that I was having second thoughts -- just once. But that was before I was rushed to the ER twice the first week of January, 2005, for a Susphrine shot.
"Well, I would normally admit him," Dr. Oliver said the next day after I was given a Susphrine shot on the third straight day, "But since he's going to Denver in a few days, I guess I'll let you take him home."
On January 8, 1985 I boarded a plane to Denver. When I arrived at my new home the next day, the nurses called a code blue on me.
To be continued...
Changes to RT Cave
Well, faithful readers, as you can see I've made some changes to my blog -- for better or for worse. Believe it or not, less than 24 hours ago I had no clue how to make any of the changes I did. And, to be honest, it was actually quite easy.
Back in 1993 I was computer literate. In fact, I had taken enough computer programming classes where I could actually write a few programs. Flash forward 15 years and I'm completely computer illiterate again -- sort of.
So, anyway, in case you have ambitions for your blog and are computer illiterate and cheap like me, I'll provide links to the places I found help:
Here is how to create a third column. It was pretty easy, but I had to spend a couple hours working out a few kinks.
Here is how to change the color of your background .
Here is how to create a new domain. I still haven't done this, but will probably do it in the next few weeks. So, stay tuned for some more changes.
Here is how to create a new header in blogger. I actually did this before I made the third column, but my "new" header no longer fit once I had widened my blog page. So my next task is to work on creating a header that fits and matches the color scheme of my blog.
I think my ego went up a notch when I succeeded at making these changes.
Ego +1
Back in 1993 I was computer literate. In fact, I had taken enough computer programming classes where I could actually write a few programs. Flash forward 15 years and I'm completely computer illiterate again -- sort of.
So, anyway, in case you have ambitions for your blog and are computer illiterate and cheap like me, I'll provide links to the places I found help:
Here is how to create a third column. It was pretty easy, but I had to spend a couple hours working out a few kinks.
Here is how to change the color of your background .
Here is how to create a new domain. I still haven't done this, but will probably do it in the next few weeks. So, stay tuned for some more changes.
Here is how to create a new header in blogger. I actually did this before I made the third column, but my "new" header no longer fit once I had widened my blog page. So my next task is to work on creating a header that fits and matches the color scheme of my blog.
I think my ego went up a notch when I succeeded at making these changes.
Ego +1
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Question for my readers
I created this blog to show people what it's like to be an RT and to share my experiences as an RT and asthmatic, to have fun, and of course to learn a few things along the way. It's been a fun ride so far I think for all of us.
So now I have a few questions for you guys.
I want to make it so my blog, or template or whatever you call it, takes up the whole screen instead of just the middle area. Stated another way, I want more columns on my blog. How do I do this? Can I do it while still using the blogspot address, or do I have to switch to a domain?
Speaking of domains, I have figured out how to switch to a domain and how much it costs, but what are the advantages of doing so. And I don't care about money and more people finding my blog, or the prestige that I have my own domain name. All I care about is making my blog more accessible, and being able to provide more information "above the fold."
And, yes, I want to make my blog look cooler. This blog is a representation of me, and the way it is right now it's not cool -- at least I don't think so. I want a better design. And I'm cheap too; I don't want to pay someone to do it for me.
Anyway, if there's an easy way for me to make my blog cooler let me know (unless you want me to pay you. I get enough spam from peole who want me to pay). Otherwise I will probably just keep things as they are.
So now I have a few questions for you guys.
I want to make it so my blog, or template or whatever you call it, takes up the whole screen instead of just the middle area. Stated another way, I want more columns on my blog. How do I do this? Can I do it while still using the blogspot address, or do I have to switch to a domain?
Speaking of domains, I have figured out how to switch to a domain and how much it costs, but what are the advantages of doing so. And I don't care about money and more people finding my blog, or the prestige that I have my own domain name. All I care about is making my blog more accessible, and being able to provide more information "above the fold."
And, yes, I want to make my blog look cooler. This blog is a representation of me, and the way it is right now it's not cool -- at least I don't think so. I want a better design. And I'm cheap too; I don't want to pay someone to do it for me.
Anyway, if there's an easy way for me to make my blog cooler let me know (unless you want me to pay you. I get enough spam from peole who want me to pay). Otherwise I will probably just keep things as they are.
It's best to smile and go on with your business
I was in the middle of a series of breathing treatments in the ER on one of our regular COPD patients when I over heard the following over the din of the ER rush:
"I suppose I better page Rick again," it was the unit secretary, "he's notorious for not getting his pages."
"Um, he's already doing the treatment," a nurse said in defense of me. "In fact, he happens to be standing right there."
I turned around, stared viciously at that cranky unit secretary and said, "You know what, I wouldn't take so much time getting down here if you guys didn't call me for so much crap. I'd say 80% of the stuff you call me for is B.S!"
Okay, so that's what I wanted to say. What I really did was go about my business, smile, and pretend I didn't hear that exchange. And the rest of the night I smiled, was my normal cordial, phlegmatic, equanimitous self, and went about my business.
I'm telling you guys, when you work in a busy hospital around an amalgamate of people with an amalgamate of personalities, you learn to take such things with a grain of salt -- especially when you work nights.
"I suppose I better page Rick again," it was the unit secretary, "he's notorious for not getting his pages."
"Um, he's already doing the treatment," a nurse said in defense of me. "In fact, he happens to be standing right there."
I turned around, stared viciously at that cranky unit secretary and said, "You know what, I wouldn't take so much time getting down here if you guys didn't call me for so much crap. I'd say 80% of the stuff you call me for is B.S!"
Okay, so that's what I wanted to say. What I really did was go about my business, smile, and pretend I didn't hear that exchange. And the rest of the night I smiled, was my normal cordial, phlegmatic, equanimitous self, and went about my business.
I'm telling you guys, when you work in a busy hospital around an amalgamate of people with an amalgamate of personalities, you learn to take such things with a grain of salt -- especially when you work nights.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Atrovent Happy doc may be on to something
We have a doctor here at Shoreline who orders Atrovent on every person who is ordered up on a treatment. The idea is, if you require a treatment, you get Atrovent. In fact, if you require a continuous Albuterol, you also require continuous Atrovent.When she's working, I stock up on Duoneb. And yes, she also gives it to kids.
When she started working here I questioned her excessive Atrovent orders, but she's the kind of doctor who knows what she wants and orders it regardless of what you think.
In fact, in RT school back in 1995, we learned that Atrovent should never be given more often than every four hours.
I've often wondered what she has read that has her so up on Atrovent. One study I found was that Atrovent can benefit asthmatics, even those having acute symptoms. But that was just one study.
Another study showed that Atrovent given in conjunction with Albuterol resulted in more patients improving in the emergency room and being discharged, compared with those just given Albuterol.
So, perhaps Dr. Atrovent knows what's she's ordering.
When I was a kid I used to take Atropine for my asthma. Back then it was common to use it for asthma. In fact, when I was first put on it by my doctor at National Jewish in Denver when I was a patient there in 1985, I was told it was a preventative medicine more so than a rescue medicine, which is basically true even as it is used today.
Then I was put on Atrovent when it came out because the side effects were less. Then I was taken off the medicine altogether because it was no longer recommended for asthma.
However, anticholinergics have long been recommended for COPD. In fact, the newest anticholinergic used is Spiriva, which has been proven (via tests) to actually improve lung function in such patients.
Yet, according to Allergy and Asthma: Practical Diagnosis and Management, "A subset of asthma patients may respond favorably to inhaled... anticholinergics such as (Atropine and now Spiriva). Although this class of medications alone is not considered sufficient as therapy in asthmatic patients, it may be a useful adjunct in some patients."
Then the author adds this, which is why I wrote this post: "There is limited experimental evidence in animal models that this class of medications may potentially limit airway remodeling, thus potentially expanding the future role of these drugs in asthma. However, at present there is not enough evidence to make such a recommendation."Perhaps, in some asthma cases, Atrovent or Spiriva might prove beneficial. Perhaps our ER doc who is Atrovent happy is on to something. And besides, even if the Atrovent doesn't result in immediate results, there are basically no side effects so what can it hurt to try.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A better way to determine asthma severity
I think it was last week I wrote a post (click here) about how according to the Asthma Guidelines my asthma is severe. I personally don't think my asthma is severe at all, but the guidelines say so, so severe my asthma is.
Today, however, as I was perusing this book called "Allergy & Asthma: Practical Diagnosis and Management," I came across criteria for determining if a person has severe asthma I think is fair. It goes like this (I'll quote this right out of the book):
Likewise, while I do have mild asthma symptoms occasionally throughout any given day, my peak flows are above normal for me. So I think the Advair does a pretty good job of keeping down the chronic inflammation in my lungs.
Granted, however, the asthma guidelines do say that the best way of determining severity of asthma is "before" starting a patient on inhaled corticosteroids. And, absent the Advair, I'm pretty certain my asthma would be severe.
So, we'll have to conclude this post by saying the asthma guidelines for determining severity are fair pre-corticosteroids, and the chart listed above is best for once a patient is on inhaled corticosteroids.
By my own determination, I now consider that my asthma is mild persistent. Yet not to be treated any less serious than if it were considered severe, because all asthmatics (no matter how severe) can have a severe, life threatening attack.
It's true with all asthmatics (mild, moderate or severe) that asthma should be re-evaluated regularly. The new recommendation is that all asthmatics see their doctor twice yearly.
Any questions or comments please inquire within.
Today, however, as I was perusing this book called "Allergy & Asthma: Practical Diagnosis and Management," I came across criteria for determining if a person has severe asthma I think is fair. It goes like this (I'll quote this right out of the book):
The following defines severe asthma
- Treatment with continuous or near continuous oral corticosteroids (more than 50% of the year).
- Requirement of high-dose inhaled corticosteroids to achieve control of mild to moderate persistent asthma.
Likewise, while I do have mild asthma symptoms occasionally throughout any given day, my peak flows are above normal for me. So I think the Advair does a pretty good job of keeping down the chronic inflammation in my lungs.
Granted, however, the asthma guidelines do say that the best way of determining severity of asthma is "before" starting a patient on inhaled corticosteroids. And, absent the Advair, I'm pretty certain my asthma would be severe.
So, we'll have to conclude this post by saying the asthma guidelines for determining severity are fair pre-corticosteroids, and the chart listed above is best for once a patient is on inhaled corticosteroids.
By my own determination, I now consider that my asthma is mild persistent. Yet not to be treated any less serious than if it were considered severe, because all asthmatics (no matter how severe) can have a severe, life threatening attack.
It's true with all asthmatics (mild, moderate or severe) that asthma should be re-evaluated regularly. The new recommendation is that all asthmatics see their doctor twice yearly.
Any questions or comments please inquire within.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Random asthma questions
Every day at MyAsthmaCentral.com we get lots of asthma related questions. Below are some questions I thought my readers at the RT Cave would enjoy.
Question: can the Breathalyzer show a positive/negative due to my asthma or medications? I had one test show a positive of 0.12 and 20 minutes later show 0.00. how is that possible if the machine was calibrated correctly? HOW IS IT POSSIBLE PERIOD?
My humble answer: It's funny you ask this question, as I've heard it from other asthmatics as well. However, I have never heard any credible evidence that any asthma medicine would cause a false breathalyzer reading.
What asthma medicines are you taking? If what you are saying is true, it would be interesting to pin down which asthma medicine is accused of altering Breathalyzer results.
Honestly, I do not know the answer to your question, yet I remain curious
(Update 8/11/10: Check out this link)
Question: My mother (95 years old) was just diagnosed with asthma. Is this unusual?
My humble answer: Ironically, I was just reading something the other day about how more and more elderly people are being diagnosed with asthma, so I don't think it's completely unusual. When I come across this again I'll be sure to keep you in mind and send you a link.
Question: A nurse prescribed spiriva for my asthma. I thought spiriva was for COPD not asthma. Is it safe for me to use spiriva or is it the incorrect medication?
My humble answer: Spiriva is a safe medicine for both asthma and COPD patients. It is an anticholinergic medicine like Atrovent that acts as a bronchodilator, only it's taken once daily and works for up to 24 hours. There have been studies that showing Spiriva actually improved lung function and decreased exacerbation's in COPD patients. While Atrovent used to be used as a controller medicine for asthma, Anticholinergics are no longer recommended as a top line medicine for asthma as there are other bronchodilators that work better, such as Albuterol and Serevent and Formeterol.
Usually Spiriva is not the first medicine prescribed to control asthma. However, without knowing the rest of your medical history, and what other medicines you are on or have tried, it's tough for me to form an opinion on your NP (nurse practitioner) ordering Spiriva for your asthma.
As is noted in this post, finding what medicine(s) works best to control your asthma can often be a game of trial and error. Likewise, if you want to find out what your NPs plan of action is for you, ideally you should ask your NP.
Question: Which is better, singulair or pulmicort. Advair is to expensive but is a great product. Is there a generic for it?
My humble answer: At this point there is not generic for Advair. I have heard rumors that say Advair wil be available in generic form soon, but I have heard no verification of this.
Singulair and Pulmicort are two different kinds of medicines, and you can read about them in the links I provided. Which one "is better" basically depends on you and your doctor. Sometimes the best way to determine which one works best is by trial and error. Some asthmatics find Singulair alone works great to control their asthma, and some find that Pulmicort alone works fine. For some asthmatics, other meds or combination of them works best.
For a great article on which asthma medicine works best for you, click here.
Question: I have heard that there will soon be a generic version of Advair. How soon?I credit Advair with controlling my asthma enough that I seldom ever need my rescue inhaler. I am on Medicare and Advair is very expensive. Because I must take other non generic medications for other problems, I reach the "gap" of Medicare very quickly, so a generic version of Advair would be would be most helpful.
My humble Answer: I have heard similar rumors, but I have also not heard any credible evidence that the rumors are true. However, at the present time there is no Generic Advair available. As soon as one is available I'm sure we will report this news here on this site. In the meantime, there was a similar question asked here if you care to read more.
If you have a question you would like to ask you may inquire at freadom1776@yahoo.com
Question: can the Breathalyzer show a positive/negative due to my asthma or medications? I had one test show a positive of 0.12 and 20 minutes later show 0.00. how is that possible if the machine was calibrated correctly? HOW IS IT POSSIBLE PERIOD?
My humble answer: It's funny you ask this question, as I've heard it from other asthmatics as well. However, I have never heard any credible evidence that any asthma medicine would cause a false breathalyzer reading.
What asthma medicines are you taking? If what you are saying is true, it would be interesting to pin down which asthma medicine is accused of altering Breathalyzer results.
Honestly, I do not know the answer to your question, yet I remain curious
(Update 8/11/10: Check out this link)
Question: My mother (95 years old) was just diagnosed with asthma. Is this unusual?
My humble answer: Ironically, I was just reading something the other day about how more and more elderly people are being diagnosed with asthma, so I don't think it's completely unusual. When I come across this again I'll be sure to keep you in mind and send you a link.
Question: A nurse prescribed spiriva for my asthma. I thought spiriva was for COPD not asthma. Is it safe for me to use spiriva or is it the incorrect medication?
My humble answer: Spiriva is a safe medicine for both asthma and COPD patients. It is an anticholinergic medicine like Atrovent that acts as a bronchodilator, only it's taken once daily and works for up to 24 hours. There have been studies that showing Spiriva actually improved lung function and decreased exacerbation's in COPD patients. While Atrovent used to be used as a controller medicine for asthma, Anticholinergics are no longer recommended as a top line medicine for asthma as there are other bronchodilators that work better, such as Albuterol and Serevent and Formeterol.
Usually Spiriva is not the first medicine prescribed to control asthma. However, without knowing the rest of your medical history, and what other medicines you are on or have tried, it's tough for me to form an opinion on your NP (nurse practitioner) ordering Spiriva for your asthma.
As is noted in this post, finding what medicine(s) works best to control your asthma can often be a game of trial and error. Likewise, if you want to find out what your NPs plan of action is for you, ideally you should ask your NP.
Question: Which is better, singulair or pulmicort. Advair is to expensive but is a great product. Is there a generic for it?
My humble answer: At this point there is not generic for Advair. I have heard rumors that say Advair wil be available in generic form soon, but I have heard no verification of this.
Singulair and Pulmicort are two different kinds of medicines, and you can read about them in the links I provided. Which one "is better" basically depends on you and your doctor. Sometimes the best way to determine which one works best is by trial and error. Some asthmatics find Singulair alone works great to control their asthma, and some find that Pulmicort alone works fine. For some asthmatics, other meds or combination of them works best.
For a great article on which asthma medicine works best for you, click here.
Question: I have heard that there will soon be a generic version of Advair. How soon?I credit Advair with controlling my asthma enough that I seldom ever need my rescue inhaler. I am on Medicare and Advair is very expensive. Because I must take other non generic medications for other problems, I reach the "gap" of Medicare very quickly, so a generic version of Advair would be would be most helpful.
My humble Answer: I have heard similar rumors, but I have also not heard any credible evidence that the rumors are true. However, at the present time there is no Generic Advair available. As soon as one is available I'm sure we will report this news here on this site. In the meantime, there was a similar question asked here if you care to read more.
If you have a question you would like to ask you may inquire at freadom1776@yahoo.com
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