Mush

I have asthma. People with severe, chronic asthma are probably nodding sympathetically right now; people who love people with severe, chronic asthma are probably wincing right now, and people who are lucky enough not to be a member of this particular tribe are thinking, well, you have an inhaler, right?

Yes.

But.

Severe, chronic asthma generally equals really shitty immune system. Which also means "gets catastrophically ill at the drop of a hat" and also "will be absolutely fine one moment and blue from a lack of oxygen the next."

I would love it if the above was an exaggeration. It's not.

Not even a little.

Just ask my poor mom, who once spent the night of my birthday sitting up with me because she was literally afraid that I was going to die. I'd been fine that morning. By ten that evening? My lips, hands, and feet were blue as I tried to remember how breathing worked and how to do it. 

It sucks. It sucks a lot. But that's life. That's MY life. 

Or so I thought.

I got sick over the weekend, and The Fella? Made working with me, making certain I was okay, and looking after me his priority. He took time off to make sure I would have help if things went south quickly. He stayed with me and checked in and made sure that I had what I needed when I needed it. 

My lungs might not have been working the way I want them to, but my heart?

Melted.

I have asthma. It's a thing. But for the first time in my adult life? I have someone who gets it and wants to make sure that I'm okay -- and who will go out of his way to make sure that happens. 

My brain doesn't know what to do with this, of course.

But my heart?

Mush.