"You can't breathe?"

"No... It's like... An elephant... On my... Chest..."

He tries to breathe deeply, but a stop and a wheeze, like a reverse breathing, comes out of him. Long, drawn out, where a drawn in breath should be. He woke up like this, again. No indication. I couldn't feel it, even though he was laying on top of me. It scares me to death.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay. I'm going to get you to your nebulizer. One minute, okay?"

He just nods. He can't speak. I'm scared to death. We roll him over on his back, and I sit up, therefore sitting him up with me. I hold him tightly as I do this, so careful. He holds on to me as tightly as he can, like a kitten trying to grab on, so I have to hold him even tighter. 

It's even worse, because my mom is currently out trying to find a humidifier for him, the very thing that could have prevented this. But his illness does not wait. There is no control. 

I set his feet down on the floor, and without releasing any strength from him, I stand up, too. My brother-in-law, Daichi, moved the kotatsu away from the couch, more towards the side of the living room, so we could get up easily like this. More space. I'm so grateful. Therefore, I have room to lean him into my arm, and grab behind his knees to pick him up the safest way I know how. He puts his arms around my neck, and off we go. Off to our bedroom, so he can lay down and I can put his mask on and he can safely and comfortably take in all the medicine. I've even learned to shake the little bottle towards the end so he gets as much of the medicine as possible.

I'll give him some Prednisone afterwards, also. It's a steroid, used to treat inflammation. Only then, when I know he is safe, will I allow him to sleep. He can sleep peacefully, warm in our bed for as long as he wants. I won't disturb him. 

My papa bought a small TV for our bedroom. He said we can both enjoy it as we lay there, but it's more for me. I already know that Sana doesn't usually watch much TV. It's not one of his favorite things to do. He'd much rather read a book, or look at sheet music, or listen to music, or hone his music craft. Honestly, the best thing to get for him would be a vinyl record player, because he loves older music so much. He gets so lost in music. It helps him forget, and focus on something else. 

Besides, he once told me, when he watches TV, he can't enjoy it much, because, and this makes me choke up whenever I think about it, he can't hear it. He often can't hear the characters' voices, because of his bad ear. He can't pick up lower tones very well, it sounds like mud, he says, all mixed together. Something may have once been something, but it's covered in mud, so it's all the same color, indistinguishable from something else. This is one of the reasons why he says he's glad I speak primarily in a higher tone. He can understand every word I say. He told me in secret that when my papa speaks to him, he's often left wondering what he said. He says he has to guess what my papa says, try to read his lips, and that he's lucky because my papa is so direct. My papa boldly looks at a person when he speaks, full in the eyes. This face to face speech pattern helps Sana read his lips. 

Sana says that he's pretty sure his illness caused this degradation of sound in his right ear. An inflammation problem, just like in his lungs. The same, somehow. He'd get such bad flares, liquid built up in there from inflammation. The liquid got so full, that it injured his ear. And only this ear, for some reason, over and over, starting when he was five years old. But, he says he was lucky, because that's the year he started to learn how to sing. He learned with the injury, able to work around it. 

Lucky, he says! Lucky? I can't comprehend how he can say that. And yet, he told me with a smile on his face. 

This injury also makes it so that he has, as he calls it, less hearing "depth perception". Like, when you have two healthy eyes, you see in 3D. When you close an eye, that depth perception goes away. It looks 2D, flat. He says it's the same with his hearing. It's hearing, 2.5D, because he has partial hearing in his right ear, but the lack of bass tones takes away some of the depth. His hearing is also quieter in that ear. Such as, say, you lift your fingers to your ear and you snap your fingers. You'll hear the same sound in both ears as you alternate if you have healthy ears. For him, the sound of the snapping in his right ear is greatly reduced, but it's still there.

Also in his left eye, he has a brown spot in his vision in the middle. This was caused by his diabetes condition. It was caused by the same thing.

It's just like how now, this same inflammation is causing his lungs to constrict. The same inflammation that constricted him so badly some ten years ago, that the liquid build up injured his heart. So many injuries, from the same condition.

I put his mask on, and turn on the machine. He knows to stay awake the best he can through this treatment. It doesn't last too long. He knows he can sleep soon, he just has to hold out a little longer. 

I wonder if after today, he will have a good day. He still has good days. Still has. Those words cause a shudder up the middle of my back. I can't think that way. I still have the hope, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he will get better. I know it won't be, say, one day when we wake up, where he's suddenly up and about and dancing around. It's not going to be that. But maybe, a gradual up slide. Where he has more and more good days, until they are mostly good days. A different kind of good day, but a good day nonetheless. A better day.

I hold his hand, and smile to him. He smiles to me, that small smile, from under the mask. He's grateful to me. That's what that smile means. That smile means "I love you". 

I sit down on my chair, the one that Natsuko brought to me, with the pink cushions because my favorite color is pink. I pick up the book we are reading together. It's a book of Japanese mythology, because Sana likes stories like this. It's the same sorts of stories like the ones about the stars. I open up to a story we have not read yet. These stories tend to last about the same amount of time as the nebulizer treatment. 

I make sure that my voice is loud enough, because the sound of the nebulizer bugs his right ear. Makes things more muddy, confusing his ear. Sounds like this often do, doesn't matter how loud they are. But I know that my voice is high toned enough that it can overcome it. He told me so. I'm so grateful for that.

I open my mouth to begin the story, finally paying him back for all of the stories he's told me about the sky. But before I begin, I place my hand on his forehead, on his bangs. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, while my hand is there, enjoying this, drinking in my warmth, the weight of my fingers. He said that's his favorite part, when I touch his forehead, these feelings. He says it fills his heart with butterflies every time. I say, louder than usual, with all of my own heart, an assurance that I want him to know is always there. Always.

My love. My love is in these words, every time. My forever assurance of, "It's okay."