This was shortlisted for the Hachette Australia Prize! The announcement was made at the National Young Writers Festival just a couple of hours ago :)
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Dear oxygen,
You are the sweet elixir of life. You swim in the veins of every living creature, a messiah rushing through billions of scarlet tributaries. One tiny molecule capable of corroding iron, incinerating coal, and powering civilisations.
The thing is, though, I didn’t even notice you until you were gone. I’m sorry; it must have been jarring when you rushed into my lungs and was met with an impenetrable barrier of goo. I promise I did everything I could to help you stay. I used the inhaler everyday, with the plastic canister to get the dosage right. I avoided pollen like it was the plague. Unfortunately, asthma is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.
I was prepared when I had that asthma attack. At least, I thought I was. Crisp blue brochures from the doctor’s office had spelled out the syllables in words I tried, and failed, to understand (Cor-ti-coh-steh-roids. In-fla-may-shun). Poring over the crude diagrams of Trusted Adults and Step-By-Step Healthcare Plans did nothing to prepare me for the symptoms in their execution:
-severe wheezing
-coughing that won’t stop
-chest tightness or pressure
-an overwhelming inability to breathe; an all-consuming terror of the existence of mortality;
-a desperate desire to get to the next breath — the next breath — the next breath
The diaphragm comes down. The ribcage comes up. The bronchi swell. The mucous rises. You were trapped, lodged, dead, in my throat. The next breath — the next breath — the next breath — every shuddering gasp was futile. The only oxygen left was the vestiges of the previous breath left in my lungs. Maybe 30% of a breath. According to Keret, that’s about three to six words, depending on volume, length, and overall breathiness. Let’s round that to four.
Four words per breath. What was I supposed to do with four words?
Suddenly, the words “let’s keep in touch” were inadequate to capture the tear-streaked goodbyes, the inside jokes, the taste of friendship distilled into a glass of apple juice on the summer holidays.
Inhale — exhale —
“I’ll see you tonight” would pale in comparison to the years; the honeyed hymns sung in the holding of hands, painted in scars and callouses and wrinkles over the decades; the freshly cut daisy flowers, offered shyly on a distant spring evening, now arranged by the bedside everyday.
Inhale — exhale —
“The witness signs here” would be decaying leaves in the face of a lifetime. They would crunch under the weight of a high school graduation; a university degree; a love; a family; a million unsung moments; a million moments captured in dusty photo albums; a white picket fence; paradise in suburbia; blood; sweat; tears; a grey hair; a black veil; stories and picket fences and moments and tears passed from fading palms to the ones that go on. (Not a good crunch, either. The kind of crunch that happens when you see the dead leaves, all excited, and stride up to it and lift up the sole of your shoe, and then when the sole comes down the leaf is still kinda springy and makes a sad little ccch noise like a dead slug).
Inhale — gasp — choke — exhale.
At that moment, four words fluttering pathetically in clammy palms, there was a world of difference between “I love you” and “I really love you”. Especially when those words could’ve been “hospital”, or “call triple zero”, or “where’s that blasted inhaler?”
I guess what I’m trying to ask, oxygen, is why you’re so damn easy to waste.
Life is so fast nowadays. The next payday. The next job. The next weekend. Repeat. The diaphragm comes down, the ribcage comes up, and the air comes in. Inhale. The diaphragm comes up, the ribcage comes down, the air comes out. Exhale. The next payday. The next job. The next weekend. Repeat.
The next breath, the next breath, the next breath.
It’s funny how in chasing the next goal, the next breath, we forget to actually breathe. It’s a weird paradox, isn’t it? We chase you all the time in workplace promotions and A-grades, and yet we don’t appreciate the satisfying clack of a laptop keyboard or the giggly, manic high that seems to possess caffeinated people at 3 AM. We get on a rollercoaster to hear the dying rumble as the carriage slows to a stop at the end, forgetting to throw our arms up and enjoy the ride.
All these years, I’ve been treating you like a single-use plastic bottle; discarded and replaced, discarded and replaced. I’ve wasted words. I’ve inhaled, exhaled, got the promotion, inhaled, exhaled. I’ve wasted you. Funnily enough, you’re one of the few things that does grow on trees (in a way), but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to apathy (on the receiving end). I’ve forgotten the feeling of what it’s like to just be; to let you fill my lungs and to smile with the sensation of fullness, soft and curled up inside my chest.
What would happen if I stopped trying to get to places for the sake of it — and just — breathed?
If 30% of a breath is four words, then (doing the math) 100% of a breath is about thirteen. What can I do with thirteen words?
I think I’d say “I’m grateful. I still laugh at our inside jokes, still taste apple juice.”
Inhale...
I’d say “Life is short. Success is meaningless in the whole grand scheme of things.”
...Exhale.
Inhale...
I’d say “I’ve learned that love isn’t finite. I love you. I really love you.”
...Exhale.
I’m sorry it took an asthma attack to realise that.
A desperate desire to get to the next breath — the next breath — the next breath — hyperventilating, hyper-fixating on what may never come. Maybe the most important thing is to use the oxygen we do have; to appreciate the value of the small things. Whether that’s a final hug with a friend, a good cup of coffee, a book you couldn’t put down. Or words. Four. Five. One thousand and two hundred. However many we’ve got left before the diaphragm comes up, the ribcage comes down, and the air comes out.
Sincerely,
An asthmatic
----
Dear oxygen,
You are the sweet elixir of life. You swim in the veins of every living creature, a messiah rushing through billions of scarlet tributaries. One tiny molecule capable of corroding iron, incinerating coal, and powering civilisations.
The thing is, though, I didn’t even notice you until you were gone. I’m sorry; it must have been jarring when you rushed into my lungs and was met with an impenetrable barrier of goo. I promise I did everything I could to help you stay. I used the inhaler everyday, with the plastic canister to get the dosage right. I avoided pollen like it was the plague. Unfortunately, asthma is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.
I was prepared when I had that asthma attack. At least, I thought I was. Crisp blue brochures from the doctor’s office had spelled out the syllables in words I tried, and failed, to understand (Cor-ti-coh-steh-roids. In-fla-may-shun). Poring over the crude diagrams of Trusted Adults and Step-By-Step Healthcare Plans did nothing to prepare me for the symptoms in their execution:
-severe wheezing
-coughing that won’t stop
-chest tightness or pressure
-an overwhelming inability to breathe; an all-consuming terror of the existence of mortality;
-a desperate desire to get to the next breath — the next breath — the next breath
The diaphragm comes down. The ribcage comes up. The bronchi swell. The mucous rises. You were trapped, lodged, dead, in my throat. The next breath — the next breath — the next breath — every shuddering gasp was futile. The only oxygen left was the vestiges of the previous breath left in my lungs. Maybe 30% of a breath. According to Keret, that’s about three to six words, depending on volume, length, and overall breathiness. Let’s round that to four.
Four words per breath. What was I supposed to do with four words?
Suddenly, the words “let’s keep in touch” were inadequate to capture the tear-streaked goodbyes, the inside jokes, the taste of friendship distilled into a glass of apple juice on the summer holidays.
Inhale — exhale —
“I’ll see you tonight” would pale in comparison to the years; the honeyed hymns sung in the holding of hands, painted in scars and callouses and wrinkles over the decades; the freshly cut daisy flowers, offered shyly on a distant spring evening, now arranged by the bedside everyday.
Inhale — exhale —
“The witness signs here” would be decaying leaves in the face of a lifetime. They would crunch under the weight of a high school graduation; a university degree; a love; a family; a million unsung moments; a million moments captured in dusty photo albums; a white picket fence; paradise in suburbia; blood; sweat; tears; a grey hair; a black veil; stories and picket fences and moments and tears passed from fading palms to the ones that go on. (Not a good crunch, either. The kind of crunch that happens when you see the dead leaves, all excited, and stride up to it and lift up the sole of your shoe, and then when the sole comes down the leaf is still kinda springy and makes a sad little ccch noise like a dead slug).
Inhale — gasp — choke — exhale.
At that moment, four words fluttering pathetically in clammy palms, there was a world of difference between “I love you” and “I really love you”. Especially when those words could’ve been “hospital”, or “call triple zero”, or “where’s that blasted inhaler?”
I guess what I’m trying to ask, oxygen, is why you’re so damn easy to waste.
Life is so fast nowadays. The next payday. The next job. The next weekend. Repeat. The diaphragm comes down, the ribcage comes up, and the air comes in. Inhale. The diaphragm comes up, the ribcage comes down, the air comes out. Exhale. The next payday. The next job. The next weekend. Repeat.
The next breath, the next breath, the next breath.
It’s funny how in chasing the next goal, the next breath, we forget to actually breathe. It’s a weird paradox, isn’t it? We chase you all the time in workplace promotions and A-grades, and yet we don’t appreciate the satisfying clack of a laptop keyboard or the giggly, manic high that seems to possess caffeinated people at 3 AM. We get on a rollercoaster to hear the dying rumble as the carriage slows to a stop at the end, forgetting to throw our arms up and enjoy the ride.
All these years, I’ve been treating you like a single-use plastic bottle; discarded and replaced, discarded and replaced. I’ve wasted words. I’ve inhaled, exhaled, got the promotion, inhaled, exhaled. I’ve wasted you. Funnily enough, you’re one of the few things that does grow on trees (in a way), but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to apathy (on the receiving end). I’ve forgotten the feeling of what it’s like to just be; to let you fill my lungs and to smile with the sensation of fullness, soft and curled up inside my chest.
What would happen if I stopped trying to get to places for the sake of it — and just — breathed?
If 30% of a breath is four words, then (doing the math) 100% of a breath is about thirteen. What can I do with thirteen words?
I think I’d say “I’m grateful. I still laugh at our inside jokes, still taste apple juice.”
Inhale...
I’d say “Life is short. Success is meaningless in the whole grand scheme of things.”
...Exhale.
Inhale...
I’d say “I’ve learned that love isn’t finite. I love you. I really love you.”
...Exhale.
I’m sorry it took an asthma attack to realise that.
A desperate desire to get to the next breath — the next breath — the next breath — hyperventilating, hyper-fixating on what may never come. Maybe the most important thing is to use the oxygen we do have; to appreciate the value of the small things. Whether that’s a final hug with a friend, a good cup of coffee, a book you couldn’t put down. Or words. Four. Five. One thousand and two hundred. However many we’ve got left before the diaphragm comes up, the ribcage comes down, and the air comes out.
Sincerely,
An asthmatic
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