Ever since I quit smoking, my lungs have been acting like they’re filing a complaint. I wheeze, I can’t take a full breath, and every inhale feels like it’s trying to negotiate its way through a haunted house of old cigarette damage. The doctors tell me it’s anxiety or even a leftover symptom of cravings—but of course my mind, being my mind, jumps straight to the worst-case scenario. (Thank you, Google, for nothing.)
I notice it the most when I’m dealing with Whiskey the Kitty. Her room is upstairs, which means I’m climbing those steps like it’s the Himalayas just to feed her, clean her litter box, or get in some playtime. And believe me, she gets her exercise—because I am the exercise. She bolts around the house at lightning speed, launching herself into forbidden corners like a furry ninja. Half my day is spent rescuing her from her own curiosity… or saving the house from her curiosity, depending on the hour.
And nighttime? Oh boy. Just when I think I’ve survived the day, she crawls into my bed and starts gently nibbling my fingers. Then not-so-gently nibbling. Then biting because apparently I am the toy. So I wake up, grab her like a tiny tornado, and escort her to the other room before she turns me into Swiss cheese.
My caseworker says Mom was right on the money getting me a kitten—but we definitely underestimated just how much exercise Whiskey was going to give me. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe lungs heal one stair climb, one chase, one kitten nibble at a time.
Either way—breathless, wheezy, and occasionally scratched—I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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