My Oxygen Deficit Disorder

I've been experiencing some breathing difficulties; ergo, air-to-go!

I guess this is kind of serious...

But I just can't seem to take it seriously.

(See what I mean?)


I've been wanting to write this post for a couple of weeks now, but have put it off, hoping to have more answers than questions before I attempted to explain it all. Now I have some answers, but even more questions. So I'm just going to go ahead and blog, before I forget that there was a time when I didn't need a special means of carrying my oxygen with me -- a time when it was all for free...

That was a time when I could run; when, even though I didn't always feel like it, if I could just do it -- hey, what a great slogan for a running shoe company -- before long, endorphins would kick in and I'd feel like I was in harmony with the universe. (Gosh, I miss endorphins!)

That was a time when I played tennis, and although I missed more shots than I made, I was exhilarated at being able to run madly around the court and then recover in time to be able to [try to] serve.

That was a time when our social life -- mine and My Awesome Husband Greg's -- pretty much revolved around playing tennis and tennis socials.

Today I went for a walk with a four-pound can of oxygen slung over my shoulder in its little padded carrying case. I was able to breathe easily, even though I was crying a little bit. I've finished crying now, because I realize that this is a small thing, compared to the burdens that so many others are bearing. But I needed to mourn for what I've lost.

I also feel a little bit like crying when I think about how difficult it's been, now that I know I need a portable oxygen system, to actually get one that works for me.

This is where I'm tempted to go into my tirade about how frustrating it's been to:

(1) Find someone who can tell me exactly what I need;

(2) Find out all the options that are available, and and what the differences are -- including cost -- between them;

(3) Have something delivered and set up that (a) comes with some operating instructions and (b) doesn't reek of cigarette smoke. Also, (c) it might be nice to have someone like, say, a respiratory therapist, come and explain how the system works.

And when I say tirade, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Whenever I find myself trying to actually explain how exasperating all of this has been, I realize that I look and sound like I'm doing a Lewis Black monologue.

So I'm going to spare you all of that. Suffice it to say, I still do not feel that I have the correct system for me. I'm expecting a phone call tomorrow that may put me on the right track. I hope so. My confidence in pulmonologists and home medical suppliers has been badly shaken. I feel like I'm the one who's in charge. That's probably as it should be, but it's a new feeling for me, and it puts me way outside of my comfort zone.

I long for the days when I believed that doctors were preordained by God, and that they were just a little bit supra-human; that they had time to read all the pages of the test results they ordered, that they could make definitive diagnoses, and that they knew the all the answers to my questions about the medicines they prescribed.

I long for a lot of things to be the way they used to be. But I realize that change is inevitable, and if we are wise, we roll with the punches and learn to look at things in a new way. I think I'm there, or will be soon...