I Am Breathing, I Am Safe

I can barely believe what I see on my scale these mornings. In between the array of toes is a number that would belong to a high school sophomore wearing a soggy shower towel — 134 pounds.

But that’s me down there.

I feel the effects. I’ve stopped wearing my wedding ring because it spins around my finger too much and slides forward too easily. I lay down to rest after brushing my teeth and again after washing up.

After making it to the bottom of the stairs, gasping for breath, I practically dive for the hospital bed that is now parked in my livingroom.

The gasping for breath is getting unnerving. It used to be that a short walk would mean a bit of heavy breathing that would pass. That has evolved into a period in which I can’t get any air into my lungs. Even though it only lasts two two or three seconds, that inability to breath, to be suffocating, is panicky.

I may want this daily ordeal to be over, but those few seconds where I might be face to face with the end are little bit terrifying. And since they are becoming more frequent, the prospect of having to stand up several times a day gives the day a little extra unwanted drama.

The hospice nurse describes having to put up with the this breathing spectre for thirty, forty-five minutes, even while on oxygen. Don’t compound it by panicking, she advises. Practice a mantra: “I am breathing. I am same safe.”

We’re never through practicing something, are we?

This is the latest installment in the blog Closing in on -30- about my doctor’s pronouncement that I have about two years to live.