On Oct. 21, 2016, I sincerely believed I would die. I would not survive another night of trying to breathe.

That being said, for one year I’ve lived with wheezing and shortness of breath; 911, Emergency Room repeated, again and again.

Living 86 years with asthma/COPD, I agree with Woody Allen: “I’m not afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

It started in October 2015 when hallway carpets upstairs and downstairs were cleaned without ventilation. EMTs were clear and direct: “We got you through this time. We may not be able to the next time,” and “Do not go into the hallway until toxic air is cleared.”

Oct. 17: 911, ER; home by 2 p.m. Oct. 21: 10 p.m., 911, fire department arrived about five minutes before EMTs – nine blue-uniformed male bodies filled my apartment space. The gurney whisked me to the ER, where they said, “We have a room for you.”

Looking at the dark night, even I got a message from the moon, “Last phase.”

Meanwhile, Jefferson Healthcare completed the beautiful new ER building and had an opening ribbon-cutting ceremony with the message, “C’mon in!”

Thank you very much. I was in Room 325, receiving treatment from a myriad parade of dedicated people. I stayed three days.

Discharged Oct. 24, I can give a loud, clear message: “Fantastic! Yes!” with energy.

I didn’t die. I survived. I’m alive. Sometimes there are hitches.

JOYCE O’NEAL

Port Townsend