A “collapsed lung” is, in fact, a condition called “spontaneous pneumothorax.” More correctly referred to as “primary spontaneous pneumothorax.” It’s common among young men who have a tall, thin body type. The cause is pretty much unknown, but it’s said that in more than a few cases, fatigue or stress can be a trigger in combination with a person’s basic physique.
Just like it sounds, “collapsed” means that part of the lung ruptures and air leaks into the pleural cavity. The balance of pressure gets messed up, and the lung withers up like a balloon with a hole in it. It’s associated with chest pain and difficulty breathing.
This illness, the mere thought of which is terrifying—it was six months ago, in October of last year, when I first experienced it.
At first, a weird pain started in my chest, and it felt as though if I moved, I would immediately lose my breath. I thought if I just waited it out it would get better, but after a couple days, I still hadn’t improved. In fact, it was getting worse and worse, so I told my dad about it and we went to the hospital. As soon as they took an X-ray, it became clear that my left lung had undergone a pneumothorax and was in an intermediate state of collapse. I was hospitalized the same day.
The lead physician decided to give me a treatment called “pleural drainage.”
I was given a local anesthetic; then they cut my chest open with a scalpel and inserted a thin tube called a trocar catheter into my pleural cavity.
The treatment continued for a full week while my collapsed lung reinflated to its original shape and the hole sealed up, and then I was released without further incident. At the time, the physician used the words “full recovery,” but in the same breath he told us, “The chance of recurrence is fifty percent.”
Back then, I tried not to think too deeply about how much of a risk that was. About all I did was acknowledge that, okay, I might get like that again someday. But I never thought I would face this miserable fate so quickly and with such bad timing…
To be honest, I was pretty depressed.
After my grandmother went home, first thing that afternoon I was called to a treatment room in the internal medicine department, where they began the pleural drainage, just like six months before.
Luckily the lead physician wasn’t terrible. The pain had been incredible when they shoved the tube into me six months ago, but this time it wasn’t bad at all. Just like last time, if the air escaped through the tube and my lung reinflated and the hole closed up, I’d be set for a welcome release. However, they told me that when the condition has recurred once already like this, the risk of another relapse is even higher. If it kept happening, they would have to consider surgery. Hearing that made me even more depressed.
My grandmother came again that evening and brought me my cell phone. But I would tell my dad what was going on in the morning. That’s what I decided.
It wasn’t as if rushing to tell him would change anything. My condition wasn’t life-threatening, and there was no need to worry him by letting him hear how feeble my voice was.
The respirator beside my bed emitted a soft huffing, the sound of the air it sucked out of my chest being expelled through water inside the machine.
I remembered the generic warning label that said “may interfere with medical devices” and turned my cell phone off. Then, feeling annoyed by the familiar pain and tightness, I looked out the window of my room.
I was in the municipal hospital’s inpatient ward, an old five-story building. My room was on the fourth floor.
I could see hazy points of white illumination below the darkening sky. They were city lights from the tiny mountain town where Ritsuko, the mother I knew only from photographs, had been born and raised. Yomiyama.
How many times have I visited this town now?
The thought cut across my consciousness idly.
There were only a very few instances that I remembered. I don’t recall much from when I was little. Maybe three or four times in elementary school. Was this the first time since starting middle school?…Or maybe not.
I was pondering that maybe not when my mind ground to an abrupt halt. A deep noise was building out of nowhere: vmmmm. It hung over me, felt as though it was crushing me…
Unconsciously, I let out a small sigh.
The anesthetic must have worn off. The incision below my armpit, where the tube had been inserted, was throbbing, mingling with the ever-present chest pain.