Rescue Inhaler

By Sydney Bollinger

I.

In Missoula, smoke travels hundreds of miles 
from Idaho — remnants of a controlled 
burn lasting hours, but the smoke lasts days,
its sticky scent woven into clothing and 
covering my skin. 

So, I sit in sanctuary: my apartment 
with filtered air, protected unlike my friends,
who have to prop windows open in the summer
to feel a cool, dry breeze. 
Now, they suffocate, 

because the smoke rolls in like waves to the shore,
pulled by the atmosphere’s current. 

Wear a mask, my mother said 
when I told her my inhaler was empty and the pharmacy 
sits a half mile down the road in 
smoke’s stagnant, heavy coat. 

But I didn’t have a mask — only the cloth of my t-shirt
over my nose, my rescue inhaler in my right hand, and my eyes 
full and burning from contact without protection. 

Now I suffocate, 

asthmatic and wheezing, 
swollen bronchioles looking for space to hold air, 
between inflammation and thick mucus — 
like I was shown on the poster at my doctor’s office 
when I was a child.

Exhale with force into the spirometer, the doctor said, 
It will measure your air, knowing the outcome 
would be that my body refuses basic function —

operation only found with daily maintenance —

inhalers and pills and breathing machines,
steamy rooms and masks and filtered air. 

II.

In Missoula, I taught children about wildfires, 
unrelenting and devastating, 
lifegiving and restorative. 

If only smoke could be restorative for me. 

Ponderosa pines rise tall in Montana’s mountain landscape. 
Spot them from afar, their stature imposing against the brightest
summer skies, their bark scarred from wildfires long past. 

See the crevices? I asked the children. See how the bark
protects them from the fires? 

See their pinecones? I ask — because their pine cones 
require fire to unfurl and foster new 
growth in a new landscape of char and ash and death. 

Ponderosa pines need fire, like we need water and food and shelter, 
I said, watching wonder on the children’s faces —

children who have lived their whole life in Montana, 
who expect the shock of wildfires, their smoke and devastation, 
who understand the cycle of fire, how it births something new, 

who fear fire season, because it’s only getting worse. 

III.

In Missoula, rumbling unease undercuts summer’s 
joy, because we listen to broadcasts about 
California and Washington and Oregon, 

so I think about wildfires and I think about 
myself, my own smoke-succumbed soul, 
how the disease refuses to relent
its stronghold, not satiated unless I take 
more medicine because

asthma’s restrictions are 
part of my natural cycle, and 
my reliance on inhalers in my backpack is 
only increasing as I age, 

even though, the doctor told me when I was young, 

Most children grow out of it, and it’s likely
you will, too. 

But, twenty-five years since my diagnosis and I’m afraid
I won’t be able to walk a mile 
in our ever-decaying air.

—

Sydney Bollinger is a writer and editor Charleston, SC. Currently, she serves as an editor and lead designer for The Changing Times. In 2020, Sydney graduated with an M.S. in Environmental Studies (Environmental Writing) from the University of Montana. As a student, she served as Senior Editor of Camas for two issues. While living in Missoula, she worked with Faith and Climate Action Montana, 350 Montana, and Extinction Rebellion. Since moving to Charleston, she's spearheaded an effort with Charleston Climate Coalition to publish a climate magazine for the Lowcountry and has covered environmental films and arts events for a variety of entertainment outlets.