Physio, the Necessary Evil That Saw My Gran Accused of Child Abuse

Day 3: Physio & Nebs

Photo from the King Family archive

Am I going to die from Cystic Fibrosis?
Like many small children, I was a sponge, soaking up the adult talk that surrounded me. As I sat, listening to the hushed tones,  knowing that I was the subject of the discussion, I became aware that something about my life was different.

And my difference had a name.
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Cystic Fibrosis.

I had more questions than answers, and with all the curiosity of a five-year-old, I needed to know. As I lay upside down, propped up by cushions, my Gran’s hands thumped rhythmically on my chest as she did my physio, I asked the question.
Am I going to die from Cystic Fibrosis?
My Gran’s hands stopped, and there was an awkward pause before she answered, “Of course not.”
But my Gran’s pause spoke louder than the words, and I had my answer.

Physio is a necessary evil

Until my transplant in 2011, both physio and nebs were constant in my life. A twice-daily grind that often felt like punishment.
A neb first, then physio. As a child, physio was always percussion — where I would get tipped upside down, and a family member would clap their hands on my chest rapidly. After each bout of clapping, it was time for a vibe — a gentle shake of the chest as you breathe out. It’s a technique designed to help shake the mucus loose, making coughing up the gunk filling my lungs easier.
I found percussion so effective that I continued it as an adult, even when other choices became available. My next go-to choice was a flutter — a device that, when used correctly, creates a fluttering sensation throughout your lungs.
During active infections, an antibiotic neb would follow physio. A later advancement was Pulmozyme — yet another neb — this one designed to help thin out the lung gunk to make it easier to cough up.
Physio is the last thing you feel like doing with lungs filled with gunk when your ribs & headache from coughing all day, but it’s a necessary evil.

The day my Gran was accused of child abuse

My Gran was doing my physio. This time, I was on her bed, partway upside down, with Gran’s hands rhythmically thumping away at my chest. I whinged, and I whined.
“Stop hitting me. You’re hurting me.”
The thumping and the sounds of my petulant voice carried out the open window and were heard by two passing salesmen.
They thumped on the door.
“What’s going on in there?” they demanded.
For the next five minutes, my Gran patiently explained the airway clearance technique and what she was doing. I even gave my own demonstration, clapping my hands on the side of my chest.
Reluctantly, they left. But they stood at the top of our driveway for a long time as if they were trying to decide what to do next. Their belief that I was being abused still strong.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis Bonus Fact
My first book The Mystery of the Sixty-Five Roses is based around a child who sneaks and spies and gets the wrong idea after peeking through a window and witnessing a physio session.

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Next in the 31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis series — Salt is the Cystic Fibrosis Version of Fairy Dust 

In summer you can see, and brush off, the salt crystals on my skin. If I wear black, you can often see salt ‘dust’ on my clothes.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis is an awareness-raising campaign to coincide with
the national Cystic Fibrosis (CF) awareness month in Australia.
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​If you’ve just joined the journey and want to start at the beginning, you’ll find the first post here: Your Daughter Has Cystic Fibrosis