As predicted, the engineer -Tony – paid me a visit yesterday and did a magnificent job of trying to make it a little more convenient for a man to be attached to a machine for most of his day…
No more tripping over airlines. Just a simple re-routing to every room in the house and convenient plug-in points in various strategic areas.
However, I have been told that I must be attached to the machine for at least fifteen hours a day…
This was my mistake, as the visiting respiratory nurse pointed out. It was nothing to do with the machine’s output setting; it was my stupidity at removing myself from the source of my energy – for safety and convenience…
Anyway, it has already become a lot more livable in our house, and Joan is now pleased as Punch that she does not have to keep a wary eye on the constantly changing positions of the snaking airline.
I feel a lot better, too, because – after all – Joan is supposed to be going through a recuperation period after a major operation, and the less she has to avoid additional hazards like tripping over my airlines and tumbling downstairs, the better.
Until a few months ago, I had an email buddy – George McGinnis - living in Laramie. He was a friend of my cousin , Rose – the subject of my story “Out West”, which I am currently publishing via this blog.
George was a little older than me and had been stationed in the south of the UK during WW2. When hostilities ended and he came home, he went into construction of some kind and became involved in the use of cement. The dry cement dust played havoc with his lungs and – just like me – George has paid dearly for his post-war Civvy Street way of life.
In other words he was suffering the same kind of complaint that I am – Pulmonary Fibrosis. I got mine as a result of working in the minature foundries of newspaper printing establishments for most of my life…
Last year, – although he lasted well into his eighties - George died. I often wonder whether he could have helped me adapt to this new situation.
It really is difficult, trying to adapt to a new way of living, especially when, as the saying goes, ‘ You can’t teach an old dog new tricks…’
Everything has to slow down, such as taking five to seven minutes to climb the thirteen stairs to get to the bedrooms. And my computer…
But, like it or not, this is my future. And my wife’s…. And she seems to be adapting with a lot more patience than I am. I ask myself: why is it that women always seem to be a lot stronger than men when it comes to illness?
