This is true. I have a second home - the hospital. I have had to live there. I have collectively spent over 250 hours in hospitals. Brigham and Women’s Hospital, then Spaulding Hospital. It's not my fault - I blame it on a few people who I’ve yet to see since it happened. If I did run into them, I would share this with them. I would maybe kill them with kindness too. I would want them to truly understand what it was like to be in my body during and after the fact. You’ve probably felt the same red-hot fire of built-up rancor inside that may or may not have reached a boiling point. Even if you act like you already let go and move on, deep down, you’re carrying a desire for malice and vengeance because you’re vexed at someone. You’re still burdened by bitterness because you’re still hurt by something someone did or didn’t do in some certain situation. There are culprits you want to hate and harm but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to do it. Sure, maybe playing the blame game isn’t the best way to cope, but it helps to objectify your experience and concretely identify complex and deep-rooted antipathy. I can’t go back in time to “fix” what is done. Instead, I'll confess why I should be dead right now. 

In August of 2023, a month after my freshman year of high school, I had to go to a music program I hated. I dreaded having to waste away two weeks of my precious summer doing something I saw as a monotonous chore rather than a hobby. Yet my indifference slowly dissipated as I adopted an optimistic mindset to make the most of my experience at New England Conservatory’s Summer Orchestra Institute. The things I did there were productive and healthy. I practiced and performed and appreciated music more than ever before. It truly paid off because I was granted an award and scholarship for a one-on-one workshop, studying with famous harpist, Vladimir "Boris" Smirnov for a week in Florence, Italy at the end of August, after completing this program, which took up the beginning of that fateful August. 

The first person I befriended was Jillian Matthews, who was a fellow harpist - we naturally shared many common traits and interests and routinely spent a lot of time together. She played for the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony Orchestra in Pennsylvania, her home. I also instantly hit it off with my chamber music partner, a flutist named Keiko Suzuki, a member of the Young People’s Symphony Orchestra in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Together, we were an inseparable trio. 

Our first concert came around on a date I can never forget: August 6th, 2023. It was a humid day with on-and-off rain, I remember. Jillian and I wanted to do something fun that night in her dorm with Keiko, who was conveniently her roommate. We both agreed that night was going to be a well-deserved break from the harp; our calloused fingers needed to heal as we had multiple blisters on both hands from trying to play loud in a symphonic setting. I remember that day was a Sunday because we had shortened rehearsal blocks and no music theory or musicology or score study classes that day; instead, we could go on excursions in Boston. Jillian and I went to the closest retail store within walking distance in the city: TJ Maxx. I still can hear our back-and-forth banter as Jillian was torn over which hair straightener to buy, which was a petty decision in my opinion. Meanwhile, Keiko was meeting up with one of her friends at a Berklee recital for their youth jazz program. We sauntered over to the checkout line with some items for later. Clenched in my hand was a party-sized bright purple bag of kettle corn popcorn and a flimsy cardboard pack containing 14 sticks of spearmint gum. 

“Do you need a bag for this?” the employee inquired, motioning toward the brown paper bags plastered with the red TJ Maxx logo. 

“No thank you.” I had my black tote bag to put this in. I paid in cash, put the popcorn into my tote bag, and then tried to put the gum in one of the front pockets, but it didn’t fit. In one pocket was my rubber harp tuning key. The other contained my inhaler. I would need the tuning key for the concert later that night, so I took my inhaler out and slipped it into the back pocket of my jean shorts. 

I got that inhaler when I was ten years old. I had two surgeries: one when I was four, and one when I was ten. I got both my adenoids and tonsils removed, and it was for the better because my airway was cleared up by 75%, according to the surgeon. You always forget most of your early childhood memories, especially ones from when you were just four. But even eleven years later, I still remember the simple design of the scrubs they put me in before surgery. It was an off-white hospital gown with bright yellow drawstrings, and with a cute, simple pattern of baby tigers throughout. I think I still have it deep inside a closet or drawer or costume bin up in the attic in my house. I was glad I was no longer subjected to Nebulizer treatment. That clear breathing mask was my worst enemy. The only precautionary device I needed from then on was an inhaler. Even though my nose bled and my lips and my throat felt swollen, even though I couldn’t enjoy the Dairy Queen banana milkshake my mom got me after the second surgery, I was grateful to have upgraded from the nebulizer mask to an inhaler I never would have to use. 

When we got back I showered, changed into my concert black clothing, tuned the harp, ate dinner, and performed the first concert. I met up with my dad and brothers afterwards, and we caught up while eating açai bowls and then parted ways for the night. 

I went directly to the tenth-floor lounge and joined in on an intense game of Uno with the others. It was a wholesome group of people and a fun time. There was a bond there, community, I remember. I felt it while I sat on the red plush couch and was grateful to be in a modern, air-conditioned building instead of the heavy, moist, humid air I felt when I was taking pictures outside that day. People later headed back to their rooms because of the lingering curfew. I started toward my room to wind down for the night and took out my phone to check the time. My home screen read 10:27 pm - I still had about half an hour. I turned off my phone for a beat, and it immediately lit up with a text from Keiko. 

“Jillian and I got Kung Fu tea - come by 1006 because we bought you boba”

I appreciated the thoughtful gesture, especially because bubble tea was so expensive, and they were treating me. A sweet gesture, I thought. Perhaps I smiled at the text or something in that moment, because I remember beaming as I felt a rush of dopamine. Their dorm was unlocked, so I entered the room, swallowed, and felt an immediate sensation. It was not the good adrenaline rush and butterflies in your stomach and high energy you are invigorated by when you’re about to perform. This was a debilitating and ominous hunch I had that I was walking into something I knew I would forever regret. I began to cough uncontrollably, and couldn’t stop. I tried to get a breath of oxygen, and though I don’t remember hastily gasping for air, I must have done so and must have managed to get an iota of it, because I was able to open my eyes briefly to identify the peril in my environment. A distinct smell entered my nostrils. I remember wishing it hadn't, and I remember instantly knowing what it was. This I had smelled before, and I can say with full confidence that you could also recognize the fumes from this odorous plant from a mile away. Maybe you inhaled a whiff passing a junkie on the street, maybe a stranger in an alley, maybe near a corner store, or maybe at a party. 

The concentrated musky scent was like that of a skunk. Looking forward, I locked eyes with Keiko and Jillian smoking together. They saw me, and Keiko’s eyes widened and I saw her sclera clear as day, except it was not the same shade as ivory as usual. No, I could see every little blood vessel as the once-whites of her eyes took on a pinkish-red hue. She instantly removed from her mouth an opaque glass pipe with a burnt-up joint of weed inside the circle at the top, a large cloud of smoke all around her and Jillian, within just a few feet. I remember hearing the grunge metal rock music coming out of her phone. I remember staring down at her gray New Balance sneakers and polyester cargo pants and the cupholder full of boba tea. They were not ill-intentioned, but it was the narrow nature of the room and the collective fog of smoke created by both of them which insinuated my coughing that shortly turned into wheezing. 

Keiko and Jillian raced to the window, opened it, and started to beat the air with a Van Halen graphic tee shirt lying on her twin bed. They were trying to help. They were trying to make the air less potent so I could snap out of it. Their combined efforts helped me, as I felt my heart rate go down, and I could hear its cadence reverberate in my ears. Writing this now, I can still hear and feel it pulsating in my chest. 

For a moment the wheezing stopped. I thrust my hand into the front pocket of my tote bag, scrambling for my inhaler. Nothing. It wasn't there. I had left it in the back pocket of my jean shorts from earlier that day. Of course, I didn’t have the inhaler when I needed it most. I felt dizzy. Lightheaded. Short of breath, most of all. My chest and diaphragm tightened. It felt like my rib cage and skeletal structure were held together by drawstrings, like those neon yellow drawstrings on my hospital gown. I felt like those yellow drawstrings inside my bones were being relentlessly tightened, preventing me from getting the oxygen I so desperately needed. I felt like I was beginning to suffocate. I felt like someone was sitting on my torso, putting all their weight down on my chest, sucking everything out of my already-compromised lungs. I continued to cough and could no longer swallow the fluids filling up and blocking up my windpipe. Then I coughed so hard that I felt something break or pop or both in the back of my throat. The salty, slime-like taste of thick mucus and phlegm combined with hot blood swirled up my throat. A dark red clumpy liquid splattered all over the floor - I popped a blood vessel. I almost choked on my own blood during the attack. This did not help with my lack of air - it only made things worse, so my body went into survival mode and shut down. I collapsed to the ground, and completely blacked out. Following that moment, everything was a big blur. 

A period of time later, I awoke in an ambulance. I don’t remember exactly what I saw, but what I can recollect is a fuzzy memory of seeing a brunette male nurse with scrubs hovering over me for a while. I was barely awake and it was all a hazy fever dream. He must have taken a long look at me, and then I must have faded back into unconsciousness. Not long after, I awoke in the pulmonary wing of Spaulding Hospital in Cambridge, disoriented and barely conscious, but I was grateful to be alive and awake, surrounded by my family. 

“We were so worried about you.” my mom said, frightened. “The pulmonologist classified your asthma attack in the most fatal class: Status Asthmaticus, or respiratory failure.”

“I can heal though….right?” I croaked.

“The doctor said it will take a lot of time and effort. Honey, you won’t be able to make it to your annual sleep away camp because you have to do a lot of rehab here so we can make sure this will never happen again. We also had to make the difficult decision of giving up your spot at the workshop in Italy because of your condition…anyway, Keiko and Jillian bought you a bouquet of tulips and an arrangement of chocolate-covered fruits. It’s really sweet of them. Both of their families are going to cover all of your medical bills. So I guess they are trying to make things right.”

I pursed my lips together and clenched my fists until my knuckles turned red and white. Once a year - that is how often I got to see my friends at camp in Maine. I had been looking forward to it the whole summer, and now was inhibited from attending what had been the highlight of my summer every year. Why didn’t Keiko and Jillian just open a window? Was it really that hard? It’s not like they would get caught if they did. Sure, they did the things they did in secrecy and weren’t purposely trying to hurt others. Maybe they thought it would be a win-win situation - having fun doing what they did in private. I stared at the IV on my forearm, then my ashen skin. Dumbfounded by my new discoloration, I opened my phone camera and looked at myself. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking, but I know I was sulking. I was sulking as I saw a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, haggard girl looking back at me. I must have thought to myself, why me? Why did I have to be in this predicament? Why did I have to have a fatal asthma attack? Why were my lungs so feeble? I could have checked off a box on my bucket list and gone to Italy! I could be outside, soaking up the summer sun. Instead, I was stuck at Spaulding Hospital.

Every time I looked at the vase of flowers they would send and those stupid chocolate strawberries, I was reminded of all I missed out on. So much had gone to waste. All this time spent in the hospital could have been time spent with friends and family. Time I could have spent getting better at the harp. It was all stripped. Gone. And there was nothing I could do about it. So I continued to mope and resent Jillian and Keiko and their sorry gifts given out of pity. It wasn’t as if both of them were ill-intentioned against me, but the consequences of what they did and didn't do caused me an unnecessary amount of pain and heartache. More than anything, it was when this happened which hurt the most. During the summer when I was flourishing with my instrument was the least opportune time to be immobile. I would have preferred to have missed school or something I enjoyed less instead. The gestures they both did to make up for it were objectively kind deeds. But I still wanted to hate them deep down. What I went through could have been prevented by the two of them. 

The doctor entered my room. “I heard about the whole situation. How are you?” I looked at him with a stoic expression, not smiling or blinking.

“I just feel angry. I don't know why I feel so much resentment right now, but what I seem to be getting at is the fact that this did not need to happen.” They could have just opened a window…if only they were more careful…”

The doctor looked at me with a dubious, arched eyebrow. “Well, there’s no time machine. What’s done is done - your lungs will never be the same, so my best advice would be to focus on your recovery.”