My daughter was only eight months old when it started, and like most things that nearly break you, it began small. A cough. Just a cough.
Dry and rattling, the kind that sounds like something is loose inside a tiny chest. She coughed through the day and through the night, and I would lie awake in the dark listening to her breathe, counting the seconds between each shallow rise and fall, telling myself it was nothing, just a cold, just the season changing, just one of those things babies get. But the weeks passed and the cough didn’t leave.
It deepened. I brought her to the pediatrician. Then again.
Then a third time. The doctor listened to her lungs carefully each visit, asked thorough questions, watched her breathe. Eventually, she said the word that settled over me like a fog: asthma.
Infant asthma. She prescribed an inhaler and medication and sent us home with instructions I followed exactly, down to the minute and the dose. Nothing improved.
If anything, it got worse. My daughter stopped eating well. She became lethargic in a way that babies shouldn’t be, heavy and still when she used to be curious and squirming.
She woke up at night not the normal way babies wake up, fussing and hungry, but gasping, struggling, her little body working too hard just to breathe. I would get to her crib in seconds and stand over her in the dark, one hand on her back, feeling her ribs move under my palm, and the fear that lived inside those moments was the kind that doesn’t go away even after the moment passes. It follows you into the next day and the next, quiet but constant, like something watching you from just outside your line of sight.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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