Breathless
He is silent in his breathlessness. The way those who’ve had their voice quietened are. Hunched over in his too-big, too-old, muted jumper. It’s mousiness, a timorous echo. The tattered pilling mimics the friction and neglect of his forty years — his garment barely a brace against the brisk winter’s day or for the lonely nights to come.
The past stretches into today through his bristles. Once new, the hair bulbs have long gone, replaced by rough, dry tendrils that have broken from their moorings. Inflexible whiskers weaving a fortress gate, guarding words that might dare to escape.
Trying not to occupy space, his pocket-sized frame flops quietly on the vacant wingback chair. Its luxurious velvet deafening against his frailty. Green offering a measure. Its vibrant emerald upscaled profile points to the dictionary definition of poise: straight spine, shoulders back, and head-up. Confidence that would articulate necessary speech. He, the breathless man, cobbled together of ashen green: jaded, beaten, dulled, so defeated that he can barely raise a breath.
Here and now, in his need, the seat appears to push him away. The dense texture refuses to yield. Robust form repels its opposite. His intrusion is unwelcome. He does not sink into its opulence. There is no gentle caress nor comfort offered. He looks perched on an inhospitable ledge.
The circle of chairs surrounding him proudly supports the other occupants. An almost 90-year-old wearing an aubergine anorak and a begrudging walking stick, readying to attend Mary Poppins with her family. A smiley man with a thick waist and balding head who seems comfortable in his aging skin, his crow's feet a measure of his manner. A doddery, talkative duet whose easy way speaks to years of communing. I imagine they have shared a life of love, never-too-big challenges, raising children, and much-loved labradors. Together. Still.
The man, though, is older than his and their years. There is a dead resignation living within him. It might be the only thing that’s thriving there. Inaudibly, he fights to catch his breath. “Fights,” I say — the wrong word. So meek, so mild, each inhalation is no more than a whimpered whisper.
Looking closely, I see the fear etched in his unobtrusive movements. The Scream plays out before my eyes in a caged, muffled expression. No one notices as he bends a little forward and wants for oxygen.
I mirror his hush and huddle near him, careful not to draw attention. I have Ventolin in my bag. I offer. He nods a nod so minuscule you could miss the movement by not paying close attention. I shake the canister, lift the lid, and hand it to him. I would not usually comment on such an event, but his response breaks something inside me.
He takes the puffer, drawing its promise to his lips. His hunch curls even smaller, tighter. Knees and elbows close. His body crumples around the container. He shudders so subtly that I wonder if he feels it in his body.
The medicine is pre-used. But the breathless man does not hesitate. This single action — the puff — becomes such the focus that the focus disappears. He almost disappears. In that moment, I see him and the world. A world where a man desperate for breath has been so quietened for so long that he cannot ask for air. He’s not sure he deserves it.
He hopes his lungs will work just a little. Please, just a little. Hope so tarnished, he submits to his lot in life with barely a flutter: he has conceded defeat long ago.
And yet, he tries.
I ask if he needs anything else. He twitches his head. He doesn't want to bother. He cradles the Ventolin like a fragile treasure, a resource he’s blessed to own. More priceless than a Cartier. Maybe that’s what he needs to find his voice. I think. What happened to this man who doesn’t have or can’t afford an inexpensive medicine? And what does this say about us?
