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Authors: Chris Bohjalian
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was going to say next. "Such as?"
"No inhalers. I have this great fantasy that someday I won't have an inhaler with me wherever I go. I won't see one every time I open my desk drawer at work. There won't be one taking up space in my attache case. I won't have to sleep with one next to our bed."
"It's not like you're an invalid," she had said. Because, after all, he wasn't. Not at all.
"And I'd love to go off theophylline. You have to wonder what I'm doing to my body long-term with that stuff. Every time I look at the warning about side effects, my stomach gets a little queasy."
"You'd be much worse without it."
"Right now I would be." He'd rinsed the razor, and the Eucerin ointment on the back of his hand glistened like vegetable shortening. The eczema had flared up the other day with the asthma, and even through the skin cream she could see the scabs and patches of red flaky skin.
"But you know what scares me the most?" he'd said. "The prednisone, that's what. I hate the whole idea of pumping my body full of steroids."
"I don't think you've been on prednisone more than six or seven weeks in all the years we've been married."
"Well, it's been more often than that. And two weeks in the last year alone, counting last Tuesday's little debacle."
"It wasn't a debacle."
"A three A.M. race to the emergency room? Waking up Kate in the middle of the night so she knows we're gone in case the house catches on fire?" He'd shaken his head before rolling the razor over a thin strip of white at the edge of his neck nearest his ear. "I don't like being in the hospital, and I don't like being unable to breathe. Trust me: It was a debacle. A complete and utter debacle."
"Have you talked to your allergist about this?"
"About seeing a homeopath? No way. Dawson would never approve. He'd feel much too threatened."
"So you're doing it anyway?"
"Dawson's a drug dealer, for God's sake. The man's a pusher. You know what his response was to Tuesday's attack? New drugs. More drugs. Accolate. Zyflo. Things called pathway interrupters. Well, I don't want new drugs. I want no drugs."
She'd sighed. "Have you checked this woman's credentials?"
"She comes highly recommended."
"Oh, does she now?"
"You betcha. She saw Christine through menopause--"
"Go on! Christine's been through menopause?"
He'd shrugged. "She's forty-eight, forty-nine years old."
"I knew she was older than us. But not six or seven years older than us."
"Yup--"
"She told you she was in menopause?"
"She was having hot flashes in meetings." He'd said it so matter-of-factly that she'd thought to herself, My body would have to be in the midst of a jet-engine flame-out before I'd announce in a meeting, Yikes! Hot flash!
"And she helped Dan go a whole winter without a cold," he'd continued.
Downstairs she heard a replicated explosion--a car crash, perhaps--from one of Timmy's video games. He knew he wasn't supposed to play on the computer before school.
"Maybe you should start by seeing if she has anything for the dermatitis," she'd suggested. After all, it often seemed that the skin thing bothered him more than the asthma. On days when his ad agency had a new business presentation, he'd be miserable. Absolutely miserable. He'd find himself beginning the pitch by apologizing for refusing to shake people's hands.
It had been so bad lately that they hadn't made love since before his attack, because he couldn't bring himself to touch her.
"The dermatitis goes with the asthma," he'd said.
"Well, does she at least have a license or something?"
He'd paused, then put the cap on the shaving cream and the can in the small cabinet by the sink. "Do you think homeopaths need licenses?"
"Oh, God, I hope so."
"Who'd license them? The State Medical Board?"
"I have no idea. But I'd look into it before I put my trust in some holistic hippie."
He'd splashed cold water on his face and then dried himself with the hand towel by the sink. "I'll look into it," he'd said, and his words
"No inhalers. I have this great fantasy that someday I won't have an inhaler with me wherever I go. I won't see one every time I open my desk drawer at work. There won't be one taking up space in my attache case. I won't have to sleep with one next to our bed."
"It's not like you're an invalid," she had said. Because, after all, he wasn't. Not at all.
"And I'd love to go off theophylline. You have to wonder what I'm doing to my body long-term with that stuff. Every time I look at the warning about side effects, my stomach gets a little queasy."
"You'd be much worse without it."
"Right now I would be." He'd rinsed the razor, and the Eucerin ointment on the back of his hand glistened like vegetable shortening. The eczema had flared up the other day with the asthma, and even through the skin cream she could see the scabs and patches of red flaky skin.
"But you know what scares me the most?" he'd said. "The prednisone, that's what. I hate the whole idea of pumping my body full of steroids."
"I don't think you've been on prednisone more than six or seven weeks in all the years we've been married."
"Well, it's been more often than that. And two weeks in the last year alone, counting last Tuesday's little debacle."
"It wasn't a debacle."
"A three A.M. race to the emergency room? Waking up Kate in the middle of the night so she knows we're gone in case the house catches on fire?" He'd shaken his head before rolling the razor over a thin strip of white at the edge of his neck nearest his ear. "I don't like being in the hospital, and I don't like being unable to breathe. Trust me: It was a debacle. A complete and utter debacle."
"Have you talked to your allergist about this?"
"About seeing a homeopath? No way. Dawson would never approve. He'd feel much too threatened."
"So you're doing it anyway?"
"Dawson's a drug dealer, for God's sake. The man's a pusher. You know what his response was to Tuesday's attack? New drugs. More drugs. Accolate. Zyflo. Things called pathway interrupters. Well, I don't want new drugs. I want no drugs."
She'd sighed. "Have you checked this woman's credentials?"
"She comes highly recommended."
"Oh, does she now?"
"You betcha. She saw Christine through menopause--"
"Go on! Christine's been through menopause?"
He'd shrugged. "She's forty-eight, forty-nine years old."
"I knew she was older than us. But not six or seven years older than us."
"Yup--"
"She told you she was in menopause?"
"She was having hot flashes in meetings." He'd said it so matter-of-factly that she'd thought to herself, My body would have to be in the midst of a jet-engine flame-out before I'd announce in a meeting, Yikes! Hot flash!
"And she helped Dan go a whole winter without a cold," he'd continued.
Downstairs she heard a replicated explosion--a car crash, perhaps--from one of Timmy's video games. He knew he wasn't supposed to play on the computer before school.
"Maybe you should start by seeing if she has anything for the dermatitis," she'd suggested. After all, it often seemed that the skin thing bothered him more than the asthma. On days when his ad agency had a new business presentation, he'd be miserable. Absolutely miserable. He'd find himself beginning the pitch by apologizing for refusing to shake people's hands.
It had been so bad lately that they hadn't made love since before his attack, because he couldn't bring himself to touch her.
"The dermatitis goes with the asthma," he'd said.
"Well, does she at least have a license or something?"
He'd paused, then put the cap on the shaving cream and the can in the small cabinet by the sink. "Do you think homeopaths need licenses?"
"Oh, God, I hope so."
"Who'd license them? The State Medical Board?"
"I have no idea. But I'd look into it before I put my trust in some holistic hippie."
He'd splashed cold water on his face and then dried himself with the hand towel by the sink. "I'll look into it," he'd said, and his words
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