A Farewell To My Blue and White Inhaler

You were my lifesaver as a child, always by my side for a decade. You knew every corner of my house, rummaged through the depths of my pockets, and felt right at home in the linings of my school bag. With you, I never felt different because of my asthma. Instead, you made me feel as though I had a superpower.

My inhaler was delicate, and the protective blue cover that surrounded the white metal aerosol tank could easily break if I accidentally sat on it. The puff it released echoed in my ears, and the coldness against my tongue was a familiar sensation. I cannot recall its taste, but I remember how it left a fleeting white mark on my skin when pressed against it. Shaped like the twelfth letter of the alphabet, you saved me countless times, even on occasions that were not life-threatening.

Whenever I sensed I was in trouble at home or school, I would whip you out, pretending my asthma had returned. You came into my life when I was two and left when I was eleven, becoming my buddy. I shared secrets with you, used you as a microphone to sing, and kept you close while I slept, ate, and drank. I never viewed my illness as a disadvantage because you helped me embrace it, granting me unique privileges among my friends and siblings.

My mother, a dedicated nurse, ensured that I had easy access to inhalers through her medical insurance. When friends visited, we sometimes played with them like toy guns, aware of their importance in emergencies. My mother often wondered how I went through so many inhalers, but the truth only came to light when I outgrew my asthma. Luckily, I always had replacements handy.

Everything changed when I turned eleven. I noticed that the attacks had mysteriously vanished. I found myself merely taking puffs or pretending to be asthmatic. Confused, I approached my mother and I shared my worries about not having experienced an attack for months, even in dusty environments. She was happy, yet I felt unsettled. A hospital check-up confirmed what I feared. I had outgrown my asthma, a common occurrence for children. They congratulated me, but I struggled to accept that I had to let go of my blue and white inhaler.

One day at school, a classmate suffered an asthma attack and urgently needed an inhaler. I offered mine, realizing his situation was more severe than mine ever had been. When the teacher returned it to me, I insisted they keep it, having come to terms with my health. My mother later celebrated my decision to part with it, emphasising that letting go symbolised my healing. Looking back, I am grateful for that change.

From that day onward, my life improved dramatically. I was healthier and used the lessons I had learnt from my asthma to help others whenever I could. I am finally ready to say goodbye to my blue and white inhaler with this tribute.