I woke up abruptly this morning at 6:00 from a dream in which I was having a terrible asthma attack. I knew something was wrong and checked my oxygen sats. I was at 85! Staring at the number flashing on the pulseoximeter, I was confused with what to do. I was not having an asthma attack; I was neither coughing, nor wheezing. I respond quite strongly to albuterol, so I was not sure what I should do since I didn't have symptoms for the medicine to address. And I wondered what it would sound like if I called for an ambulance since I knew I was not competent to drive at that point.

As the number continued to flash, dipping down to 81, but hovering at 85, I decided to go head and use the emergency inhaler.

I also called my dear friend W to see if I could wake her up (she is on central time) so that I could tell her my dream.

You see, I had already awoken once during the dream. I left my bed, relieved myself, and drank some water. However, once I fell back asleep, I picked up where I left off in the dream. I thought that if I told her about the dream, if I stayed awake long enough to talk and to listen, then I might avoid dropping back in the dream a second time.

W did not pick up the phone, but she did call me back shortly. By that time, my heart was racing at 145 and my sats had risen to 88-89. I told her what was happening and asked if she would listen to my dream. She agreed.

Somehow, I had been an observer to the fact that there were six people who were being subpoenaed. One was a lawyer and tipped the others off to not be at home. So, those delivering the subpoenas switched to ambush tactics, following them until they could put the documents in their hands in front of witnesses. One of the men jumped in his car when he realized that he was being tailed and raced away. A short while later, I was driving down a street and saw that he had run over a police officer who I somehow knew, Ben. I called 911 to report the accident and the injured police officer.

[In my dreams, most of the time when I call 911 I never get help. There are many reasons for this: I cannot dial the numbers; I am put on hold; I keep getting transferred to a strange business; no one is available for help; or no one believes me.]

I began pleading with the operator to send an ambulance for Ben. I knew he was bleeding and in danger of dying, yet I could not make him believe me. I told him Ben's name. I told him that he had been hit by the man fleeing the subpoena. I could not say the name of the street where the accident took place, but I told him that it was the street between two others I named, which made it clear where the accident had occurred. I explained that I have MS and sometimes couldn't access information that I knew and could only describe it in the hopes someone would understand what I was trying to say.

The operator finally said that he would investigate my claims, and I hung up the phone. I crawled into bed, but soon realized that I was having an asthma attack. I called 911 again and asked for an ambulance, but I realized that the operator, though different from the other one, knew who I was and for some reason I did not understand at the time was refusing to help me. She kept saying that the only ambulance allowed in my city was already busy...busy helping Ben.

I tried to get out of bed and then realized that I was being restrained by a female police officer who was lying next to me in the bed. She snaked her hands beneath my pajamas and was touching my bare skin in such a way that terrified me. I finally got away from her and ran downstairs.

Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, I went outside to get in my car to go to the hospital and suddenly found myself staring at only the hood of my car. I discovered that the police thought that I had run down Ben and had taken apart my car to examine it. I was crying and could barely breathe as I begged the people combing through the pieces of my car for help. They all glared at me and then turned their backs.

I was barefoot and in my pajamas. As I made my way uphill down a long street to get to the ambulance, it began pouring down rain. With my breathing growing more labored by the minute, I pushed my way through the crowd and stopped in front of the paramedic standing by the ambulance. Tears streaming down my face, I begged her to help me. She said that she would not help me unless I could correctly diagnose was what wrong.

I told her that my oxygen saturation in my blood was low and I needed oxygen and a breathing treatment. She pointed to Ben's bloody body still lying on the road beside his crumpled car and told me the only thing she was going to get from me was a shot of epinephrine to the heart. I knew that would kill me because it wasn't what I needed. She motioned for two police officers to hold me between them and pulled out this five inch needle. Somehow I twisted out of their grasp and ran away.

After a while, I could barely get any breath at all and fell down in the middle of the road. When I looked up, I saw a Denny's and thought I could call for help from there. With my clothing soaked, it was as if I walked into the restaurant naked. Shame and fear warring within me, I stumbled inside and asked for the phone. A man behind the counter motioned to a corner where an ancient, black phone sat on a table, with an old man and an old woman on either side.

I couldn't dial the number. I tried again and again, hoping that if I could reach my writing student's mother, she would come and pick me up and take me to the hospital. The old man kept staring at my heaving chest, and the old woman kept spitting tobacco onto a plate resting on the table. After many failed attempts and watching my finger nails turn blue as I tried to place them in the proper holes of the circular dial that would connect my call, the two old people said they would dial for some money.

Hope rising even as I was growing weaker, I gave them each a five dollar bill. The old man dialed the phone and I heard my writing student's mother pick up the phone. Quickly, I told her what was happening. But before I could finish my tale, she asked me to stop speaking. She said it was all just to sad to think about and hung up the phone.

I dropped the handset and sank to the floor, gasping for breath and tears streaming down my face again. I begged the people sitting at the tables around me for help, but they merely kept eating. Just as everything began to grow dark, I awoke.

By the time we hung up with each other so both of us could go back to sleep, my sats had risen to 93. While that is actually still quite low, I was out of the 80's and my fear over my breathing was beginning to subside.

I really do not know what had happened while I slept. I have woken up with asthma attacks before, but this time I was not having symptoms. The only attack I had was in my dream. I am puzzled why a dream could affect me so.

My sats are still hovering in the low 90's. My chest feels as if it does after a major attack and breathing is still a bit difficult, a bit painful.

I am puzzled, and I am worried. The drugs I take for asthma attack are too dangerous to take if I am not having one because the way they affect my heart and nervous system.

I wish I knew what happened, but I will say that talking with W helped. After hanging up with her, I prayed until I fell back asleep. Although I did dream again, I was not trapped again in that dreadful one.

What did I dream? Well, perhaps I will tell that tale another time...