Kirk Miller art

For many years, I’ve explored the elusive idea of the self through various media and techniques. I’ve come to believe that identity isn’t rooted in a single event, trait, or memory—it’s a patchwork of real and imagined histories, what I call “prosthetic memories.” At the core of mine lies a truth I cannot escape: my lifelong struggle with illness, particularly asthma, has done more to shape my personality than anything else.

Like Marcel Proust, I’ve suffered from chronic, severe asthma since childhood. It’s been my Achilles’ heel, always lurking in the background, shaping the contours of my life. Many of my most vivid childhood memories revolve around asthma attacks—some terrifying, others simply strange. In the 1950s, little was known about the condition. Many believed asthma was a psychological issue, the result of nerves or a child’s imagination. While it’s true that anxiety or excitement could trigger an attack, it was more often allergens like dust, pollen, or certain foods. Even laughter could betray me, sending me into a spiral of wheezing and gasping for air.

My condition was often dismissed by family and friends. My parents and grandmother were heavy smokers, oblivious—or perhaps resigned—to the fact that tobacco smoke was one of my most dangerous triggers. It wasn’t until the mid-60s that a compassionate allergist insisted my room be stripped of rugs, drapes, and anything that might harbor dust mites. He recommended we give up our beloved dog—but that was a line we wouldn’t cross. Pets, after all, are family. To their credit, both of my parents eventually quit smoking, for my sake. My mother resumed the habit after my father’s death in 1982, but at least for a while, they tried.

Then came the summer of 1994. I was watering the lawn when I suddenly lost my balance and fractured my hip. I was only 44. That fall led to a diagnosis of osteoporosis—likely caused by prolonged steroid use, which depletes calcium from bones. I began daily injections of calcitonin-salmon, but within a year, I discovered a large lump on my inner thigh. It turned out to be a rare cancer: dermatofibrosarcoma protuberans. 

I didn’t outgrow asthma, though I managed it more independently after leaving home for college. It wasn’t until my late thirties, when I finally had decent health insurance as a tenured professor, that I began regular visits to an asthma specialist. My doctor, whose name I’ll omit, significantly improved my health with a careful regimen of medications. He also encouraged me to participate in pharmaceutical studies, but many required patients to “reverse” their symptoms without corticosteroids—a feat I couldn’t achieve. I used corticosteroids for years without understanding the long-term consequences.

The surgery was extensive, involving radiation and a painful transdermal flap to close the wound. This cancer doesn’t metastasize, but it behaves aggressively, digging tentacles deep into muscle and tissue. Had I waited longer, I might have lost my leg.

During a post-op checkup, I casually mentioned some hearing loss in my left ear. A test confirmed total deafness on that side. An MRI revealed a 4 cm tumor—an acoustic neuroma. Surgery was scheduled for the end of the spring semester. I survived the procedure but suffered a stroke during the operation. It took months of rehabilitation to walk again and reclaim my fine motor skills. I returned to teaching that fall, but it took five full years before I felt truly functional again.

That was over twenty-five years ago. Since then, I’ve managed fairly well, though new health concerns continue to surface. I now see a cardiologist for atrial fibrillation, have undergone an atrial ablation, and monitor my heart and blood pressure daily. Most recently, I’ve been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, for which I’m currently being treated.

Yet through all of this, asthma has remained the constant. The medications I take today are minimal compared to the past and generally keep me stable. But even a mild cold can send my system into chaos. A sinus infection quickly turns into bronchitis, often requiring another round of steroids and antibiotics. It’s exhausting—and increasingly slow to resolve.

Having recently turned seventy-five, I’m more aware than ever of my mortality. I don’t obsessively read the obituaries, but I can’t ignore the passing of friends, colleagues, and mentors. Their absence reminds me of the time I have left—and how precious each breath is.

Living with asthma has forced me to turn inward. I’ve learned to conserve energy, to retreat into a kind of protective shell. Over time, I became more introverted and less inclined toward physical pursuits. I once tried to follow in my father’s footsteps as a house painter, but it was clear my body wasn’t built for that kind of labor. Instead, I became an artist and teacher—roles better suited to the physical realities of my condition.

Much of my recent work deals with illness and embodiment, but one piece, in particular, stands out: oneLung. It is my attempt to visually represent the experience of living with asthma—the constriction, the fight for air, the endurance it demands. It’s a piece born of pain, persistence, and a lifelong negotiation with breath itself.