Breathin' Easy After repeated efforts to self-diagnose serious medical conditions, I admit that I was relieved to be mistaken about my bacterial meningitis, multiple sclerosis, and a nasty, but imaginary, case of scabies.  However, in the end, I was left wondering, “What the hell is wrong with me?” I’ve spent many years avoiding physical activity and all who claim to enjoy it.  It was inevitable that I would one day find something other than my heart murmur to blame it on.  I decided that I am not out of shape, but rather asthmatic.  I was mocked, mostly by supposed doctor-to-be, Jeff Goshe, which only fueled my desire to be diagnosed with a respiratory disorder.  I knew in my heart and my tiny malfunctioning lungs that some things, like breathing, are much harder for me than most people. Yesterday, after attending my last painful class, I could feel my asthma flaring up in response.  On a whim, I walked to the nearby doctor’s office and I asked if I, a new patient, could see the doctor sometime soon.  The receptionist told me to sign a makeshift clipboard (an uneven stack of papers held together with a staple) and within 15 minutes I was in to see the doctor, or at least the woman who people referred to as “doctor”.  I am skeptical, only because after signing two papers and providing an emergency contact, I was being taken back and having my chest x-rayed.  Not only did they take me in as a walk-in patient, but they showered me with x-rays and spirometry.  An hour and a half later, I had a prescription for an albuterol inhaler, confirmation of borderline asthma, and a spring in my step for possessing more medical knowledge than Jeff.  Take that Sir Wrong-A-Lot.