“Her number’s still low. Get the albuterol,” one says, and then I hear Loretta’s voice.

“Vy, it’s gonna be okay, sweetie. Don’t you worry about anything.”

I open my eyes as wide as I can, ’cause it seem like maybe some air might get behind ’em and slide all the way down to my lungs, but it don’t work, and when I look at Loretta she know exactly what I’m saying, ’cause she say, “Don’t worry. I won’t forget. Now, shush, and relax. Do what they tell you to do, Vy. Come on, sweetie.”

“Granny!” Shanice is crying and I can’t take her seeing me like this.

“Shanice, sweetheart, come on out here and let these nice men help your granny, dear. Come on.” Loretta puts her arms around my granddaughter and now my eyes just say thank you and she put her finger over her mouth to tell me to shush-up again, her favorite thing when she think I’m running my mouth too much, and I shake my head real fast to tell her that’s what I’m about to do. Is shut up. And be quiet. But thank you for taking my granddaughter outta here. Thank you for being such a good friend, Loretta. I hope she saw all that in my eyes.

Now something is going down my throat and I know this is that other stuff they try when the first one don’t work. “Her blood pressure’s hypertensive: 170 over 104; and the pulse is tachycardic: 160. And we have ectopy on the heart monitor. Let’s watch her for a second. If no change, let’s do another albuteral. How you doing, ma’am?”

All I can do is shake my head back and forth, and I think I got this whole sheet balled up in my hand. It’s too hot in here. Can’t somebody open a damn window?

“Ma’am, I’m gonna give you a shot in the arm. But I need you to sit still. And then we’re gonna give you an IV and put you on the gurney and we’re gonna take you to the hospital, all right? Try to relax and we’ll have you there in a few minutes.”

I wish he would stop saying that! How in the hell can I relax when I can’t breathe? I feel ’em sticking me with more than one needle but for some reason it don’t hurt. Now I feel like I’m about to gag, and, sure enough, here come that spaghetti.

“Oh, no, she’s vomiting!”

My head is thick and hot and now I know I won’t get no more air. Even when I feel that other tube coming down my throat I know this ain’t gon’ work either. When they pick me up and put me on that gurney and strap me in and prop my head up, something cold slides between my legs. It’s usually colder than this. My hands is puffing up. My arms is, too. I’m swelling.

One fella picks up a little telephone and says, “Base, this is Rescue 4. I’m in route to your facility, Code 3. My ETA is two minutes. Have a patient with a severe asthma attack. Does not appear to be getting better with the treatment given.” And then he hangs up and looks down at me. “Hang in there, ma’am, you’re gonna be just fine.”