My son was in his early twenties, still living at home. Every so often he mentioned chest pains, and I asked him to have a medical check-up. Young men of that age don’t like going to the doctor, and he assured me that after a short while the pains always subsided, so he was “fine”.

I was unhappy with his decision, but I couldn’t really drag him there myself. He was an adult, after all. However, his chest pains became more frequent, until one Saturday evening he was doubled over with pain, gasping for breath. His lips were turning blue. I was alarmed. He hadn’t been exercising vigorously, nor doing anything strenuous to cause a problem.

That was it. I would drag him to the hospital if I had to. This time the pain was not subsiding. I called my husband to help me, as Joe could not stand upright, nor could he walk. Still Joe protested that he would be "fine" in a short while. I would not take no for an answer.

“Just to a medical centre then,” he pleaded.

I knew that any doctor at a medical centre would send him straight to the hospital for further tests. I also knew that the Emergency Department at the hospital was likely, on a Saturday evening, to be filled with people who’d had punch-ups after too much to drink, or alcohol-related car accidents, or who had collapsed from a drug overdose, and the waiting time was likely to be long.

Our hospital was trialling a new system with an easily accessible section set aside for an “out-of-hours doctor” to be on duty 24/7 for people who may need medical help but not necessarily hospital admission. We decided to take him there. We half-carried him to the car and managed to get his lanky frame in.

The doctor took one look and declared he had to go straight to Emergency. He organised a wheelchair and we were taken through the network of inner corridors of the hospital straight to the Emergency Department. Because he was still bent double and clutching his chest, the triage decided he was a number one priority, and he was taken in immediately. The minutes ticked by. Half an hour, an hour. No news. We sat in the waiting room with the drunks and the addicts, some loud and shouting, others very quiet. Time moved very slowly.

Finally, word came.

He was in a temporary ward awaiting full admission. His heart had been checked and was fine. That had been their first concern. His problem? He had a spontaneous pneumothorax. A collapsed lung, they told me. I had never heard of a spontaneous pneumothorax. As he was asthmatic, my thoughts immediately went to considering a possible link. I was perplexed. What had triggered this? His asthma? He was not a smoker.

No, they reassured me, it was just something that occasionally happened. When they initially saw him, they straight away guessed it would be a collapsed lung, but first took the necessary precautions for his heart.

How could they guess straight away he had a collapsed lung? I pondered the question.

The medical staff explained that a collapsed lung (or pneumothorax) occurs when air escapes from the lung, and then fills the space outside the lung between it and the wall of the chest. This build-up of air puts pressure on the lung so it cannot expand as much as normal when one takes a breath. It was “spontaneous” because there had been no trauma such as a car accident, no knife or gunshot wound.

We were able to see him in the ward, and a ghastly amount of fluid was being collected in a plastic bag at his side. I couldn’t look at it. It looked gross. His lung was being drained.

Later, surgery reinflated his lung, and the plan was to send him home in a couple of days. However, every time the drain was removed, his lung collapsed again. They found a solution: they would use a special adhesive to glue the lining of the lung to his chest cavity, so that it would be impossible for it to collapse again. His stay in the hospital was extended.

Our daughter went to the hospital to visit her brother. They were very close, but opposite in looks. She had almost black hair and very dark brown eyes and was of average height. He was very tall and thin with blue eyes and blond hair. As she walked along the corridor, she met a male nurse, a former school friend.

“Jane, hello! What are you doing here? Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes, my brother – he has a collapsed lung!”

“Is he tall and thin with fair hair?” the nurse queried.

“Why yes, how did you know? Do you know him?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, I don’t know him at all. But a collapsed lung gave it away. Most spontaneous pneumothorax events occur in tall thin young men with fair, ginger, or auburn hair. Medical science does not know why. It generally happens between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight, and I guessed your brother would be within that range!”

That was the answer to the question I’d been asking myself. He fitted the typical profile for a spontaneous pneumothorax patient.

She located Joe, and he proudly showed her the drain filled with mucky fluid – she was nearly sick at its sight. That’s a brother’s sense of humour! He was obviously feeling a little better.

Our son is now "fine". However, because of his lung being concreted to the wall of his chest cavity, he must never do scuba diving, or sky-diving or other events at high altitude where air pressure may differ significantly.

Why did I choose this story above all the other medical experiences we have been through?

So that others might become aware of this phenomenon. It may be helpful to remember that young men with the above characteristics comprise a major proportion (ninety percent!) of spontaneous collapsed lung emergencies – and some of us may have family members fitting these criteria.

Our daughter is now married, and her eldest son does not look at all like her – he’s sixteen, very tall, very thin, and has auburn hair. She’ll know what to do, should the need arise.