Our new bedroom is small by comparison to our bedroom on the hill in Kentucky. For one thing, our new furniture is quite large.
Finally, we even have a queen size bed, but then I bought a large cherry double chest and a huge glass-front curio chest in which I keep my entire animal collection, all the framed family photos and our books. I even have a bed bench for the foot of our bed so that the two cats can get onto the high bed.
Crowded, yes, but doable — until my oxygen problems began.
After just a week here, I was having more and more trouble getting enough air into my lungs. It got bad enough that I had to find a new family doctor. Our next door neighbor recommended her own doctor, who I called and went to see. After a battery of tests he determined that the high altitude only aggravated it. The real problem was structural. The severe curvature of my upper spine was squeezing my lungs together, leaving too little space for air intake and if I wanted to stay here to live, I had to accept the fact that I would be forced to have the mother of all oxygen machines installed in our bedroom. I had to be hooked up to it at least eight hours a night and once during the day.
Into an already too crowded bedroom, we must shove this machine into the only space left. To say I did not like this was an understatement, but the instant relief I get every time I get connected is wonderful. Just being able to draw in good clean air after really struggling sometimes makes me feel like crying it feels so sweet.
However, now every inch of wall space in our bedroom is filled and I complain about it to whoever will listen. Not long ago, my friend Bob was putting up with my whining and complaining about all this clutter. I went on and on about how ugly the machine is, how much room it takes up, how much noise it makes, how I can't even turn over in bed when I sleep without yanking the tubing right off my face, and on and on. Finally, he had had quite enough so he broke into my tirade and said, “Hey, Jean, hey, stop it. You have to look at it like it is the price you have to pay to live in paradise.”
Well sir, it stopped me dead in my tracks. It did not take me but a minute to see he was absolutely correct. Now I feel thankful that there is such a machine to help me. However, new tests yesterday show my osteoporosis is so much worse I have to get a portable tank of oxygen to keep in the car just in case I go some place any higher in altitude and can’t breathe.
I immediately started whining again that I was not going around attached to any oxygen! I even started telling him how one of the Walmart clerks actually works with a tank strapped on her back, and I would never do such a thing, and the funniest thing happened. Echoes of Bob rang in my ears and I flat shut my mouth.
Oh good grief — what was all that talk about paradise and stuff? Listen, what I do know is it is really comforting to have two of my grown kids and three of my grandkids around a whole lot because they choose to be with us. Let me tell you, that feels pretty nice. And also, did I tell you Gene can now walk slowly but without a cane for almost one-and-a-half miles each morning? This dry, clean mountain air is doing wonders for him, and that is worth a whole lot to me.
Let’s just hope the six weeks of pulmonary rehab plus this ugly machine will help me and we can stay indefinitely. Frankly, just recalling how truly hard it was to move, I hope I never have to move again.
Meanwhile, the view from the mountains is wondrous.
Finally, we even have a queen size bed, but then I bought a large cherry double chest and a huge glass-front curio chest in which I keep my entire animal collection, all the framed family photos and our books. I even have a bed bench for the foot of our bed so that the two cats can get onto the high bed.
Crowded, yes, but doable — until my oxygen problems began.
After just a week here, I was having more and more trouble getting enough air into my lungs. It got bad enough that I had to find a new family doctor. Our next door neighbor recommended her own doctor, who I called and went to see. After a battery of tests he determined that the high altitude only aggravated it. The real problem was structural. The severe curvature of my upper spine was squeezing my lungs together, leaving too little space for air intake and if I wanted to stay here to live, I had to accept the fact that I would be forced to have the mother of all oxygen machines installed in our bedroom. I had to be hooked up to it at least eight hours a night and once during the day.
Into an already too crowded bedroom, we must shove this machine into the only space left. To say I did not like this was an understatement, but the instant relief I get every time I get connected is wonderful. Just being able to draw in good clean air after really struggling sometimes makes me feel like crying it feels so sweet.
However, now every inch of wall space in our bedroom is filled and I complain about it to whoever will listen. Not long ago, my friend Bob was putting up with my whining and complaining about all this clutter. I went on and on about how ugly the machine is, how much room it takes up, how much noise it makes, how I can't even turn over in bed when I sleep without yanking the tubing right off my face, and on and on. Finally, he had had quite enough so he broke into my tirade and said, “Hey, Jean, hey, stop it. You have to look at it like it is the price you have to pay to live in paradise.”
Well sir, it stopped me dead in my tracks. It did not take me but a minute to see he was absolutely correct. Now I feel thankful that there is such a machine to help me. However, new tests yesterday show my osteoporosis is so much worse I have to get a portable tank of oxygen to keep in the car just in case I go some place any higher in altitude and can’t breathe.
I immediately started whining again that I was not going around attached to any oxygen! I even started telling him how one of the Walmart clerks actually works with a tank strapped on her back, and I would never do such a thing, and the funniest thing happened. Echoes of Bob rang in my ears and I flat shut my mouth.
Oh good grief — what was all that talk about paradise and stuff? Listen, what I do know is it is really comforting to have two of my grown kids and three of my grandkids around a whole lot because they choose to be with us. Let me tell you, that feels pretty nice. And also, did I tell you Gene can now walk slowly but without a cane for almost one-and-a-half miles each morning? This dry, clean mountain air is doing wonders for him, and that is worth a whole lot to me.
Let’s just hope the six weeks of pulmonary rehab plus this ugly machine will help me and we can stay indefinitely. Frankly, just recalling how truly hard it was to move, I hope I never have to move again.
Meanwhile, the view from the mountains is wondrous.
