Breathing Deep
and remembering
Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths." Etty Hillesu
Teaching yoga, I've been marveling at the importance of our breath— and remembering…
My most stressful days have centered around a loved one's breathing (or, more accurately, lack thereof.)
Jordan, my son, has had asthma since birth. He was born looking pretty blue and whisked off for a few hours. No surprise, knowing the spirit he was born with and continues to exhibit, he wouldn't wait too long to get on with life. He was lying in my arms before I was even too alert. But in the following years, we spent many hours in the ER getting his breathing regulated. And when he was a toddler, he developed pneumonia. I remember lying next to him throughout the night, listening to his breathing, like a soldier on duty with my marching orders, "Not on my watch."
The most challenging day I ever spent with my mother was in the hospital a year before she passed. She aspirated food into her lungs and developed pneumonia as a result. Her breathing became labored. She couldn't swallow and had a DNR order. The doctors advised that they would send her home the following day to pass and left Rick and me to help her. Helen was nothing if not a fighter. That afternoon she asked us repeatedly to help her breathe.
Help me! Hit my back. Hit my back! I can’t breathe.
I surmise that she felt like she was choking, thinking that if we slapped her back, it might dislodge the blockage. I felt helpless. I crawled up next to her on the bed, crying while Rick talked us both through an extremely long afternoon, one breath at a time.
Helen, look at me; take a breath. Slow down, Helen. There you go.
Holding her hand, he repeated his mantra for hours until she finally found her way to slumber. Despite the doctor's predictions, Helen returned home the following day to live another year.
In the years before this day, my mom had never been quite sure about my second husband, Rick. She kept asking me what was wrong with my first husband, Ron, and couldn't I have waited to divorce him until she was dead. (I think this is funny now. I didn’t back then.) At my daughter's college graduation, she cornered Ron's new wife Estela and told her, "You got the better end of the deal," within earshot of Rick.
I can only thank God Rick has a great sense of humor. He understood that my mom's age, along with her dementia, was playing a part in her actions and words, and instead of taking offense, he responded with humor. She was attending the ceremony in a wheelchair. As HE pushed her wheelchair up the parking lot back to our car, he told me there was rope in the trunk that he could use to tie her to the back bumper on the way home. She was hearing impaired. We had a good laugh.
A few days after my mom returned home from the horrible hospital stay I described above, she said to me, "Oh honey, that Rick is really something." He had won a place in her heart, which also warmed my heart.
Six weeks into my yoga classes, I revel in the benefits of breathing deeper. I've learned this lesson repeatedly over the many years I've practiced yoga, left the practice, and returned to yoga. I aptly nicknamed myself the wayward yogini.
But by golly, it's nice to be back, marveling at my breath once again, especially after the last three years, when shallow breathing became the norm. After only six weeks, my rhythm has slowed and deepened. My muscles are responding to the call my cardiovascular system is sending out, "Let's slow it down, Suzy-girl." I'm listening. I'm all in.
Last week I awoke in the wee hours of the night, awake. Thinking. Feeling. Breathing. Realizing how effortless my breathing felt and how relaxed I was even though I was awake when I should have been sleeping.
Then I began to listen to Rick breathe, his slow and steady rhythm, like waves receding and returning to my shore. I remembered the times when the breathing or lack thereof of my loved ones had been so harrowing. I sent a prayer to the heavens, thankful to be awake listening to this man I love breathing. I fell into a peaceful slumber minutes later, appreciative of here and now, of the deep breaths that nourish every aspect of my body and those I love, the breaths which define life.
At this moment, you are seamlessly flowing with the cosmos. There is no difference between your breathing and the breathing of the rain forest, between your bloodstream and the world's rivers, between your bones and the chalk cliffs of Dover.
— Deepak Chopra
Sue. This is lovely. Your Rick is indeed a decent, patient, and compassionate human. You are both fortunate it would seem, as you are gentle, kinde , and caring as well.
My own first husband had asthma and did not take care of it, often running out of his medication, or insisting he had a handle on it when he didn’t. This often resulted in my calling the ambulance with the worst time having me drive like a speed demon to the emergency. He told me he was fine, and I could just drive him, turning blue, and collapsing against the dash part of the way there. Breath is the most important thing...
My grandma had emphysema, and she slowly drowned as her old lungs filled up with water. She started counting for some reason, and when she would lose track of counting in the hospital bed, my aunt would prompt her as to what number she left off on. I took a moment when everyone else left the room to tell grandma that she didn’t have to count anymore, it was OK, and her family would be fine if she chose to leave. She stopped breathing a few hours later, and hopefully as in peace now.
I too love the sound of my forever husband as he snores, sometimes not so gently beside me at night.
You were one of the writers who entice me to jump right on Substack when I get a notice that you’ve published. Thank you for sharing slices of your life.
This is beautiful Sue.