Goodbye concentrator, farewell rollator
I’ve been humming this to “Goodbye Picadilly, Farewell Leicester Square, the chorus of “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” a World War I marching song that my grandmother used to sing to me.
I’m off oxygen and just returned from a three-day drive along the Ohio River Valley. Eight months ago, when I posted about my unexpected lung disease without thought for the burden it would place on my friends and acquaintances, I never expected to drive again and anticipated being on oxygen for my remaining years.
Having waved goodbye to all my friends, it’s a bit embarrassing to now announce that I have more energy than I have had in years. My rollator, walker, wheel chair, commode, and bath bench are hanging in the garage, just in case. My oxygen concentrators are waiting for pickup.
Why have I recovered instead of fading away, the usual prognosis for those Interstitial Lung Disease? Friends remark that I did my exercises conscientiously. Well, yes, exercise is great, but not great enough to clear lungs. Truth is, my pulmonologists are puzzled. Wait and see, they say.
Meanwhile here are three thoughts on the last eight months.
First, I now think about the challenges faced by the disabled in a very concrete way, rather than with vague sympathy.
Two examples. Being tied to an oxygen tank means manipulating 50 feet of tubing 24 hours a day or, if you go out, manhandling heavy tanks that last only an hour and a half. If you are lucky enough to have a portable, the time jumps to three hours, more if you recharge in the car, but its constant burping disturbs others if you go to an exhibit, lecture or performance.
Then too, flames are no-no, so I topped my gas stove with two large cutting boards, a one-ring induction burner and new induction-friendly saucepans (thanks Amazon). With that, a countertop electric “air fryer” and a microwave, I could prepare simple meals.
Induction ring, convection oven, microwave
Second, the investment in restoring my health was staggering. The pulmonology specialists who I still see regularly have spent hours with me.
The physical therapist, occupational therapist, and nurses who worked me hard in the rehab hospital could not have been better. Nor the similar team who came four times a week for six weeks of in-home care. Finally there was the very experienced respiratory therapist who devoted two hours a week to me alone for two six weeks.
I could not have been more impressed with or grateful for their skill and dedication.
Third, at the risk of sounding mawkish, there’s nothing like the shock I experienced to make one determined to make the best use of a newfound life, whatever that best use may turn out to be. It will certainly include blogging more regularly and getting my web si