Peggy Blomenberg
I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of my newborn taking her very first breath. She breathes! and cries—and I cry, too, in great exhausted jubilation at her shocked announcement of life: I am here! (Wait, where AM I?) Simultaneously with breath, her voice is born, borne on that very first exhalation. Our cheers, laughter, and tears applaud her brand-new breathing—robust and sure, as practiced as if she has been doing it all her life.
Still, many nights I steal to her crib to look for the rise and fall of that impossibly tiny chest, then expel my own held breath in relief and gratitude.
Life: in-breath, out-breath, repeat. Precious, fragile, infinitely dear.
Decades later, I sit stunned with this all-grown-up daughter at the bedside of her husband, who collapsed at work and was found not breathing. He is 35. We are in Neuro-ICU. A ventilator breathes for him, buying time, keeping our hope alive minute by minute. As long as breath follows breath, we can hope for recovery.
As a singer, I know that breathing, so life-giving and seemingly so natural, can be improved upon. I recently attended a master class in singing at UWEC given by the brilliant Dr. Pina Mozzani. She demonstrated for her student singers how to better hold their bodies to make a space for the air, enabling the deep and effective breathing that is foundational for excellent singing. It was a marvel, the difference in the sound that emerged from these already fine singers as they allowed their breath to effortlessly become their song.
Our first breath and our last breath pretty much delimit life as we know it outside the womb. In between, in daily routines, we might stand up and go for “a breath of fresh air.” Or take a break to “catch our breath.” We have a sudden inspiration (literally, in-breath) that “breathes new life” into stale patterns or ideas. Celebrating special occasions, we expand our lungs to the max, blowing up balloons, blowing out candles, making joyful noises. (Well, not so much right now, but we can hope.) Swimming, we dive deep then race back to the surface for air. Hiking at altitude, our breathing becomes more rapid the higher we go. Very thin air and thin ice are both dangerous in that they do not fully support us.
The last breath, for many, comes too soon. To our grief, my son-in-law did not recover. But it was not for lack of a ventilator. Simply, he had been without oxygen for too long before being found, resulting in irrecoverable brain injury. For many in communities around the world, right now, the availability of such a machine—to buy time, offer hope, and provide support through the critical period—is the difference between recovery and death. I hope that we will each do our part to delay transmission and thereby spread the serious cases out over time, so that those whose survival depends on such machines may hope for recovery.
Peggy Blomenberg is a hopeful, grateful, and mostly positive person. She has lived in the Chippewa Valley since 2009.