LYING on the doctor’s examination bed in his resuscitation room, I was using the methods I'd been taught to help me breathe and avoid panic. I was in the cycle of a chronic obstructive pulmonary disease exacerbation and didn’t have a lot left to breathe with but I knew it wasn’t the life and death struggle that the first one had been two years ago.

So sure was I that I could get through this one without help, I’d suffered almost four weeks ‘waiting for the good weather.'

But when even dressing becomes a monumental task involving at least one rest between trousers and top; when every muscle feels drained of any power and your gait is that of a drunkard; and you shiver in a house heated like a sauna, you have problems.

You know the barrels used in vineyards with the steel bands stretching around? Now imagine your chest is the barrel and one of those bands keeps gripping tighter and tighter...

Throw in the constant headache, the hand cramps and the overwhelming fatigue that can see me slump head over keyboard without conscious knowledge of the moment.

What threw me about this life sapping daily routine was there was no apparent trigger. No infection; no exposure to wood smoke, heavy perfumes….nothing.

But it is a chronic, progressive disease that one can just hope to keep stable, no more. There is no cure. No hope.

Now my fear is that it has notched up another thread on the ladder to…well, continuing infirmity is the kindest way to put it.

Anyway, here I was – focusing on diaphragm breathing while Dr S made several phone calls to raise a nurse trained in taking arterial blood and using the new machine he’s bought for the purpose.

He will then decide if the level of oxygen in my body is such that I will need to be hospitalised.

I have had this done before in hospital and was so out of it I wasn’t aware of how painful it can be, especially if a nerve is hit.

"I’m not sure about this Dr S," I said weakly. "Do they know what they’re doing?"

"They’re the best," he said brusquely. He’s forgetting I know the machine has lain unused because there was no-one trained to use it.

No-one can come for another hour. I’ve been there since 6.45 am and it’s now 8.45am.

Fidelma Cook: I only need to look in the mirror to see ravages of time

Still concentrating on steady breaths, I peer down at my feet. Thank God I’d given myself a pedicure a week ago. Oh, sweet mother of God, how the hell did I miss the big toe on the right foot.

It curves like a scimitar standing proud from its fellows in waving rebuke.

Ah, the shame.

There’s nothing I can do now, so now I fret about César, left in his paddock without water. He’s clung to my side the last few weeks convincing me he knows something I don’t.

Will Trudi take him if it’s hospital for me again? Who will I call to sort him out in the meanwhile?

All these thoughts swirl as the young male nurse arrives. "You can do this?" I ask. "Of course, of course." He’s rather handsome so I surreptitiously tuck my right food under my left. Of course, that causes immediate cramp and the foot jerks under his nose.

Jesus, he can’t even get the machine working. That takes another hour and a half.

Finally, he approaches with the syringe. The first attempt felt like electrocution, the second just pure pain. "You haven’t hit it, have you?" I spit. "No," he mutters.

He moves to the other arm. At the fourth exceedingly painful attempt I yell "Enough," and fix him with a glare so harsh he backs off to the wall.

He leaves and now my usual early morning drugs have kicked in and my breathing is normal again. Well, my normal.

It seems he somehow got some blood for the machine to read and Dr S is happy to send me home with a nebulizer and more drugs.

I think it’s helping. I’m no longer shuffling with the lope of a silver back around the house but I haven’t bounced back to pre all this.

My spirits rise and fall with each breath.

Depression comes as an additional side dish with COPD. I wouldn’t call what I’m feeling depression – I’ve known those with true depression.

No, I would call it understandable bloody misery being alone, fighting the fears and feeling merde.

Anyway, one has to face the facts as they are and somehow push oneself through it all.

People are doing it in far worse situations than me every single day. In fact, I wasn’t even sure whether I should write this but then I thought: No, that’s the deal we made. I’ll tell you the truth of my life.

Oh, and I must say a special thanks to Theresa May here. Every day she infuriates me so much that for a few minutes I breathe without thinking.

Truly, righteous anger sets the blood coursing.