The End of Dyspnea by Mario Benedetti Apart from its principle and disputable glories (soccer, grilling, door knockers from the Palermo District), Montevideo claims additional corresponding renown, and this is indeed indisputable: it holds the Latin American record for asthmatics. Of course, one can no longer say holds but held. As a matter of fact, it is that journey from the present to past imperfect which I propose to relate here. I am, despite my yet to be completed thirty-nine years, a veteran of dyspnea, breathing difficulty, says the dictionary. But the dictionary can’t explain the nuances. The first time you experience that difficulty, you naturally feel the final hour has arrived. Afterwards, you become accustomed, you know that after that false agony the saving blast of air will suddenly arrive, and then you stop feeling nervous, stop clawing at the bed sheets, your eyes wide in desperation. But the first time it happens, one panics, and as the rhythm of exhalations and inhalations becomes increasingly more difficult and intermittent, one immediately determines that the moment will soon arrive during which the bronchial tubes will seal off their remaining apertures and the fatal, definitive asphyxia will suddenly occur. It isn’t pleasant. Nor is it comfortable for friends and family members who witness the asphyxiation; their confusion or powerlessness sometimes translate into counterproductive aid. The best thing you can (or could) do in front of an asthmatic in the middle of an attack is to leave him alone. Each person knows the location of the pressure in their chest. He also knows what he has to resort to for relief: the tablet, the inhaler, the injection, the cortisone, the cigarette with the smell of putrid grass, the occasional thrusting back of the shoulders, or resting on the right side. It depends on the circumstances. The truth is that asthma is the only illness that requires a style, and you could even say a calling. A hypertensive person should abstain from the same fluids as another hypertensive person; someone with hepatitis should follow the same tedious regime as someone else with hepatitis; one diabetic should take the same insulin as another diabetic. Or that is to say (if we want to elevate this allopathic slang to a metaphoric level): all the islets of Langerhans belong to the same archipelago. On the contrary, an asthmatic will never lose his individuality, because dyspnea (as my poor mutual benefit society doctor used to say, to decorously conceal his professional ignorance concerning this difficult topic) isn’t an illness, but a symptom. And even though in order to arrive at dyspnea you would previously have to go through the customary sneeze, the truth is that there are those who begin panting from the moment they eat a shellfish sandwich, but others who arrive by way of the fine dust lifted by a feather duster, or by staining their hands with carbon paper, or by registering the proximity of perfume in their nostrils, or by excessively exposing themselves to sun rays, or perhaps to cigarette smoke. With asthma, all of that which Kant called Ding an sich can be a determining factor, therefore resulting in the almost creative path of dyspnea. It’s not a question of now getting caught up in bronchial chauvinism, but we asthmatics are accustomed (or were accustomed) to asking a question that always served to confuse the non-asthmatic literary critics: would Marcel Proust have conceived his incomparable Recherche if asthma had not forced him to distressfully breathe his memories? Can anyone be certain that the famous madeleines or the aesthetic bell towers of Martinville couldn’t be the cause of what we today call his first and blessed bout of allergic dyspnea? Science today proclaims that there’s no reason to confuse dyspnea with yearning or panting. Nevertheless, it’s likely that in Proust’s era they would be confused, and dyspnea would almost be yearning, that is to say, a disused yearning, or even better, a certain kind of pressure on one’s conscience. The readers who have always breathed with their lungs and bronchial tubes at full capacity can’t possibly imagine the tribal protection provided by an asthmatic condition. And unlike other ailments, it is the condition itself which provides protection (or provided it), precisely by rescuing those individuals who always seem trapped by their asthma. For example, what could two chronic prostate sufferers ask of their bodies? For obvious reasons, it isn’t appropriate to go into the details here, but the truth is that whatever functions for one person, functions for everyone. Such monotony is also valid for those who find themselves in a cardiologist’s waiting room, between the second and third heart attacks, or for those whom, by means of homeopathy, gather their muriform cell calculations, or that is to say, calcium oxalate urine samples in little labeled boxes. Since the ancient times of the four humors of Hippocrates, a person with gout has always been the same as another person with gout. But an asthmatic, with respect to another asthmatic, is not the same (here is the distinguishing and decisive nuance), but similar. That’s why, until two years ago (or that is to say until the appearance of CUR-HINAL), Montevideo was for us, the asthmatics, a risky city, but also an enviable city. Freemason windbags, a resentful person called us, which we recognize as justified in a certain way. We asthmatics distinguish ourselves and are captivating from a distance. A slight sinking of the chest, or a pair of very glassy eyes, or a nose that palpitates almost imperceptibly, or a dry and half-opened pair of lips; there is always some physical data that serves as a countersign. That, without relying on the marginal details: the particular shape formed by the inhaler in the jacket pocket, or the conscientious interrogation of the restaurant waiter regarding the possible hazards of mayonnaise, or the quick retreat before a cloud of dust, or the discreet act of opening a window for the cigarette smoke to clear away. When an asthmatic recognizes some of those fraternal characteristics, he quickly approaches the fellow member and begins one of those dialogues which constitute the charm of dyspneic life. “How are you? Asthma, right?” “Only nasal.” (There’s a bit of embarrassment in this acknowledgement, because the exclusively nasal asthmatic is considered a neophyte, a mere apprentice. The difference between a bronchial asthmatic and a nasal asthmatic is the same as the difference between a professional and someone who is simply competent.) But the member can also be a bronchial asthmatic, and then the camaraderie is indeed established without restraint: “This time of year is terrible.” “Like every autumn.” “Would you believe that the spring is worse for me?” “Look, I haven’t slept a wink in the last three nights.” “Do you use injections or an inhaler?” “An inhaler. I’m afraid of becoming accustomed to the injections.” “The same thing happens to me. Of course, since they’ve been making the formula here in this country, I don’t have to clear my airway the same as before.” “That’s true, isn’t it? You need at least three times the amount of blasts.” “How many blasts do you need to clear your airway?” “Six or seven, for a minor attack; fifteen or twenty, for a major attack.” “The doctor recommended that I never exceed ten.” “Yes, of course, but provided that you always use the imported formula.” “Well, I always find someone who brings me two or three little bottles from Paris.” And so on and so forth. The dialogue can last ten minutes or three hours. Because each asthmatic is a separate individual, an isolated and private patient, their background also has originality and inevitably attracts the interest of the fellow member. I suffered from a type of discrimination for several years. Ever since my bout of typhoid fever (as is recorded in the archives of the Medical Certification Services, during the 1943-44 epidemic I was the first confirmed case on file with the Public Administration, excluding the Autonomous Personnel), I first began to suffer from nasal asthma, then dyspnea. Nevertheless, the family doctor was obstinate about his diagnosis: extraordinary asthma formations. Under that denomination, I felt quite diminished, somewhat like an asthma snob. If it would occur to me to open one of the windows for the smoke from those cigarettes that I don’t smoke to dissipate, and someone would solicitously approach and ask me: “Are you a bronchial?” I would feel very disheartened when I felt forced to respond with inflexible frankness: “No, no. It’s only extraordinary asthma formations.” I immediately realized that my response was turning me into an object of discrimination: no one would ask me about tablets, inhalations, nebulizations, syringes, adrenaline, herbal remedies, or other veteran characteristics. It was a long succession of ordeals, from doctor to doctor. I even changed my mutual benefit society doctor. It was always the same response: “Don’t worry, friend. You’re not an asthmatic. They’re merely extraordinary asthma formations.” Merely. That little word annoyed me more than all the attacks. Until one day, a Swiss asthma and allergy specialist arrived in Montevideo and established a fine clinic on Canelones Street. He spoke Spanish so badly that he couldn’t identify (that’s what I think) the words asthma formation, and told me that in fact I suffered from asthma. I almost hugged him. The news was the best compensation for the hundred pesos the consultation cost me. There were rumors immediately. I admit that I contributed modestly to the spreading. That’s when my best period as an asthmatic began. Only then did I join what my resentful friend called “The Society of Freemason Windbags.” The same veteran dyspneics who had looked upon me with patented contempt, now approached smiling, hugged me (discreetly, of course, so that we wouldn’t mutually obstruct our bronchial tubes), asked me completely professional questions, and would, without subterfuge, compare their hissing, raspy breathing with mine. There was never any religious, political, or racial discrimination among proper asthmatics. I, who attended elementary school and high school at Sacred Family, and am actually a Christian Democrat, have had formidable, specialized conversations with people who I wouldn’t say are constituents of the National Party — with whom I have an extra-dyspneic affinity — but with agnostic members of the Colorado Party, socialists, and even communists. In this respect, I have a good memory of a night on which a Protestant, an Atheist member of the batllista movement, a Marxist-Leninist of the Peking line, and I, met in an embassy behind the Curtain. The four asthmatics. I never learned so much about expectoration as I did on that night of vodka and cubalibre. The Protestant talked about severe, sudden attacks prior to expectoration; the Atheist was a scholar of foamy expectoration; the Marxist placed on the record that his attacks were fever free (quite a novelty) and contained scant expectoration. Then I dropped my carefully coined phrase: “There’s no reason to confuse dyspnea with yearning or panting.” The three of them looked at me with sudden interest, and from that moment on I noticed a new level of respect, and I would even say admiration, in the way they treated me. The list must be long, but I can assure you that I’ve talked about asthma to Jews, Negroes, newspaper vendors, porters, bah, with everyone. I do admit that my only outbreak of discrimination would occur when someone confessed to me, with tears in their eyes, that they didn’t suffer from asthma but from extraordinary asthma formations. If there’s anything I can’t tolerate, it’s snobbery. Of course, the glorious period didn’t last forever. That is to say, it lasted until the appearance of CUR-HINAL. I would say that the worst thing, what is most annoying and dreadful, was that it wasn’t a drug discovered in Finland, or in Algeria, or in the Persian Gulf, or that is to say, something that one could arrogantly ignore or at least not introduce to the country, invoking the shortage of foreign currency or any other sensible pretext. No, the worst thing is that it’s a national invention. Someone, an obscure doctor from the interior, came to Montevideo one day, convened a press conference, and announced that he had discovered a drug that definitively cured asthma: CUR-HINAL. The journalists smiled, as you, reader, and I would smile if a neighbor of ours had suddenly announced that he was the conqueror of cancer. Nevertheless, the obscure doctor took an inhaler out of his briefcase and, directing himself at two asthmatic journalists, asked them to try CUR-HINAL. One of them proudly rejected the offer, but the other was in the middle of an attack and gave himself two timid blasts. The dyspnea ceased, as if bewitched. But sometimes it would also cease with traditional inhalers. The aggregate amazement consisted in the fact that that panting feature writer never suffered from asthma again. For eight or ten months, doctors made prudent statements warning the public about dangerous setbacks provoked by the drug; the authorities asked for caution, and even prohibited the sale of the drug in pharmacies. Nevertheless, the obscure colleague convinced them (as the nonasthmatic Marxists would say) with practical use. Ten months after that spectacular and demagogic press conference, official medical communiques continued appearing in the newspapers, but at that point all of the asthmatics had already been cured. One fine day, the high government, which has always been comprised of conquerors, decided to issue an administrative summary directed at all the detractors of CUR-HINAL. The obscure doctor from the interior was named Public Health Minister and continentally recommended for the Nobel in Medicine. I admit that this last turn of events leaves me totally indifferent. The little doctor (who was never an asthmatic himself, nor even asthma formational) can keep his simplistic cure-all remedy. What I want to mention here certainly isn’t the exaltation of the doctor, but the defection of my fellow members. In the beginning, a National Asthma Commission was formed, with the best intentions, to bring order to the unexpected chaos. One has to admit that every asthmatic had to struggle with their own alternative: give themselves four blasts of CUR-HINAL and relieve themselves of hissing and non-hissing raspy breathing, of foamy or moderate expectoration, of dry and very dry coughing, of severe, sudden attacks or panting; or continue as they were up until then, that is to say, suffering all of that but knowing that they are part of an internationally valid congregation, knowing that they’re constituents of a coherent minority whose power is affirmed from night to night. Personally, I went on the record with the traditional option, the classic asthma. Nevertheless, I should acknowledge that the unity was rapidly corroded by the physical weakness of human beings. In the selfsame National Asthma Commission there was an ominous invasion of sacrilegious blasts of CUR-HINAL. Certain newspapers, generally well informed, have suggested the possible infiltration by non-asthmatic leftists. I refuse to believe it. Physical cowardice is the cause of this suicidal disintegration. Little by little, I started to notice that all of my old asthmatic friends were going on to breathe normally. Their stooped shoulders were returning to their original position. Their thoraxes were straightening out. Their sneezes had become modest, diminutive, and sporadic. Their diet included mayonnaise again. I started to feel alone, neglected, angry, withdrawn. A recluse among the multitudes. That same resentful person who had once spoken to me about a “Society of Freemason Windbags,” was now telling me that I was a rebel without a cause. And once again I understood that he was right. Because I had been protecting my dyspnea from all corruption, for no other reason than to feel that I was a member of a select clan, a chosen minority. But if my friends in the clan were indeed defecting, if one by one they were selling their dignity as asthmatics for the paltry price of mass health, then where did that leave my strange privilege? Who could be united by my well-reasoned complicity? On the other hand, the guilty conscience of the ex-asthmatics, that hidden notion of their regrettable desertion, was leading them (again) to discriminate against me, look at me with resentment, and keep silent whenever I approached. They finally defeated me. On the day I became aware that I was the only asthmatic in the country, I personally went to the pharmacy, asked for a little bottle of CUR-HINAL (it’s now packaged better and comes with a little inhaler) and went home. Before giving myself the four prescribed blasts, I became fully aware that this would mark the end of my dyspnea. I swear I couldn’t contain myself and started to cry. Today I breathe without difficulty and admit this signifies some progress. Merely physical progress. It’s clear that the good times will never return for me. I, who was one among the few, should now resign myself to being one among the many. Someone proposed that the ex-asthmatics be formed into a kind of brotherhood association, conceived on a Pan-American scale. There was never a quorum and in the end it dissolved with more sorrow than glory. Sometimes I pass some agile ex-asthmatic (I too walk up the hills without a problem) in the street and we look at each other with melancholy. But now it’s already too late. It’s an irreversible process: plentitude has no retroactive effect. We try to exchange remarks like these: “Do you remember when you used to give yourself nebulizations?” “What was the name of those cigarettes for fighting asthma that gave off a putrid grass smell?” “Do you prefer the national or the imported formula?” “Isn’t it terrible when autumn arrives?” But it’s not the same. It’s not the same.