When I was 4 years old, my childhood home had black mold that neither my parents nor professionals could find until five years later. The black mold almost killed me, collapsing one of my lungs, and my other lung began to deteriorate. In addition, I had pneumonia at the same time. This happened again when I was 5.
Since then, I’ve been the friend who is always sick, has to be extra cautious when running around, and the one who carried an inhaler everywhere I went. It wasn’t until I was 16 that a doctor finally diagnosed me with asthma.
I am now 17 and have been to the hospital four times with pneumonia in the past six months. I’m writing this as I sit in my primary care doctor’s office, waiting to see the results of a chest X-ray and to talk about why my pulse is jumping from 83 to 95.
I found this association this morning, and it brought me comfort knowing I’m not the only one who will live the rest of my life under these conditions. I am young, a fighter, and a survivor of lung and immune diseases. It’s nice to know I have a corner of comfort to turn to when I’m feeling helpless.
