Time: 0830\
May 27, 2526\
Aboard the UNSC Excalibur
So it turns out that my allergy to cytoprethaline has gotten worse. Hadn't been aware that was possible, but I was pulled out of cryo ten minutes into a Slipspace jump because Vincent noticed a lethal spike in my body's reaction to the drug. Doc says if I'd stayed in the tube for one more minute, I would have been dead when they pulled me out. I am therefore assigned to Eric's quarters for the duration of this journey, with an alternate location being chosen for future jumps. This leaves me plenty of time to plan out my excuses as to why not being in cryo does not adversely affect me. That's going to be a fun conversation.
Sadly enough, I've spent most of my time trying to keep my breathing steady and regular. It's like there's a clamp around my chest and I can't breathe past it. Shallow breaths are fine, but anything even remotely deep makes it feel like there is a dagger in my chest. Ignoring the pain doesn't help, as that usually sends me into an uncontrolled coughing fit. However, the shallow breathing does not provide enough oxygen for me to be activate, so I've spent 90% of my time sitting on Eric's bed, reading his collection of ancient Earth literature. All I can say on that subject is that early 21st century authors had a very interesting idea of how the future would look.
All this focus on my breathing has reminded me of Instructor May, though. We didn't have many female teachers, but May was in a class by herself. There was no single person we feared more. She was rather short, not even topping five-feet, and had a very soft a pleasant demeanor at all times. When we met her for the first time, she held her hand out to John with a smile, and when he grabbed to shake, she spun and threw him over her shoulder and into the river. Before any of us could move, she'd turned back, smile still in place. "This is me in a good mood," she said. "Do any of you want to see me in a bad one?" We shook our heads. "Good. Then we'll get along splendidly." From that day forward, most of our bruises came from May.
Despite her prowess in throwing unsuspecting cadets into hard and unmoving objects, May was the one to teach us meditation, oddly enough. She claimed that the only way we'd become effective warriors is if our minds were as disciplined as our bodies. Of course, sitting and letting our minds go blank wasn't really something any Spartan was good at, and we got cracked over the heads with metal poles more often than I care to remember, but eventually we learned to value the peace and quiet as much as she did. By the end of our training, we could all fall into a meditative state while on the middle of a battlefield as we're getting shot at.
The first time we had cryo training, I nearly didn't make it out of the tube, my allergy reacted so fast. I wasn't unconscious, but my throat had swelled shut and my lungs felt like they were on fire. All around me I could hear adults yelling, and I thought I heard Fred calling for me, but I was in a panic. My vision was going dark and I was trying to hard to pull in a breath, but I couldn't. Then, in the middle of that chaotic storm, a hand rested on my shoulder. Looking up, I was surprised to see Instructor May, gazing at me calmly. "It's okay," she said, somehow very clear. "You can do this. Just pretend we're meditating and take a breath." I thought she was crazy, but decided it wouldn't hurt to try, so I closed my eyes, blanked my mind, and took a breath. Except this time, it worked. It wasn't a full breath and no where near what I would usually do, but it was air. "Keep breathing. Go on, breathe in. Keep on breathing. Just breathe." She kept repeating that, again and again, her voice calm and steady. With her guidance, I was able to focus until Halsey showed up and gave me a shot to counteract the allergy. It's because of her that I survived. After that, she always made sure to focus on my breathing, giving me tips for how to regulate airflow more efficiently than most soldiers. She helped me live.
Now, all these years later, I find myself breathing to the same count that she always gave us. Despite the burn in my chest and the tightness in my throat, I keep a steady rhythm. It's the only reason I've lasted as long as I have, and it's saved my life more times than I can count. The fact that the technique came from a particularly violent chinchilla is amusing, though I'd never tell her that. I like to live, after all. So I'm going to do what she said. Just breathe.
Babble time: The song this chapter is based on is Breathe by Superchick.