© 2004 Jack Canfield & Mark Victor Hansen/King Features Syndicate

THE LAST ATTACK

Wayne Allen Levine©1999

(From "Chicken Soup
for the Body & Soul")

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept me from having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods, most plants, trees, grass and flowers. And keeping a pet — especially a dog or cat — was completely out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed: I needed to avoid everything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the doctor every Saturday morning for my weekly allergy shot.

"Do not exert yourself," he told me. "It will probably trigger a dangerous asthma attack."

Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my bike like a demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I became top gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50, 60- and 100-yard dash records. At 11, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the allergy shots each week — a subjective decision based not on information I read in any book, not on the advice of any experts; rather, my body told me I didn’t need them anymore.

My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. "We’ll see how you do without them," they said.

But I wasn’t through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to get a dog — a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love — and I began to immerse myself in all the things that used to make me sick (or had been told would make me sick). I cut the grass for neighbors who didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be near lawns. I smelled flowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat strawberries, which doctors said "could possibly be fatal."

I don’t remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my last. I was 11 years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was running hard through the African jungle — in reality, the alleys behind our house. There were many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun. Sometimes while running, especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell and squeeze off my air supply. That day was no different. Reluctantly, I decided to leave the jungle and return home to rest.

The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed, quiet focus. In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.

As I lay on my parents’ bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the shiny silver bolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what seemed like the still point in the center of the fan’s great vortex and held my attention there, while listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard the rapid, rhythmic crackling sounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high-pitched whistles, which marked the trail of the few puffs of air struggling to make their way through narrow passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to my body.

Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life forever — a simple thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I understood, for the first time, that the little bit of air getting through was all that was necessary to sustain me. It was enough. When I realized that I have nothing to fear, I will always have enough air, my lungs opened fully.