One of the fears of living is death
Yet no one knows for sure
There are many fears in life itself
Sadness, sickness, loneliness, and darkness
God made man for living and death
Could then death be something to fear
~ Gemini Joe ~
S
o here I am, sitting all alone in my chair surrounded by my paintings and the treasures I created. My health is getting worse every day and I’m getting weak. I have to move slow and hold onto the wall when I get up to go into the bathroom or the kitchen.
I still have those meals in the freezer. You know—the ones you ordered for me from meals-on-wheels at the senior center. I also want to thank you for ordering the hospital bed with rails. I was always scared I was going to fall out of the bed in the middle of the night, but lately I just sleep here on my recliner. It’s easier and I like to stay close to my oxygen tank.
My mother died of cancer and my father died of complications from emphysema. I’m up to three packs a day now, but I’m trying to quit. My neighbors are begging me to go to the doctor. They really care about me.
I sat at the doctor’s office and filled out a medical questionnaire, and then the nurse led me into the exam room and took my blood pressure and temperature.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” she said.
I sat on the exam table, wishing I had a drink, but I didn’t want that monkey on my back again. I started again, it wouldn’t be easy to quit.
As the minutes ticked by, I lost my nerve and got up to leave. Just then, the doctor walked in.
“Joe. I haven’t seen you in a while. What brings you here?”
“I haven’t been feeling good and I’m having a hard time breathing.”
“Let’s just take a listen,” the doctor said and lifted the back of my shirt.
“Take a deep breath,” he said with the cold stethoscope on my back. He listened for a long time.
From the look on his face, I sensed trouble. “Is something wrong?”
“You have reduced lung capacity. I’d like to do further tests.”
“What kind of tests?”
“We should do a pulmonary function test first.”
“Will it hurt?”
“No, just relax. I’ll have the nurse come in.”
“All right,” I said.
The nurse came back, wheeling in some equipment.
“This is a spirometer,” she explained. “It will determine how much air you can blow out of your lungs and how fast. I need to put these clips on your nose.”
“How will I breathe?” I said, panicked at the thought of obstructing my airways.
“You’ll be able to inhale through this tube.”
“I won’t get enough air!”
The nurse smiled and patted me on the back. “It won’t take long, I promise.” She adjusted a small box and pulled out the tube. “I want you to breathe in then blow the air out as fast as you can.”
I put it in my mouth and took a deep breath then strained to exhale. “I can’t,” I said, taking the tube out of my mouth and fighting for oxygen. “I feel dizzy!”
“You may have temporary light-headedness, but you’ll be fine.”
I tried again, huffing and puffing, which depleted the oxygen in my lungs.
“All done,” she said.
With no flirt left in me, I gave her a weak smile.
After the test, the nurse guided me to the doctor’s office for a consultation. It seemed like I was sitting there for an eternity. When the doctor came in, he closed the door this time, without a smile as he studied my chart. After a long silence, he looked up.
“You have what we call COPD. It’s an obstruction in your airways.”
“I’ve had that since I was a child.” I laughed, trying to make light of it.
“You’re not a child anymore, Joe, and your body isn’t as strong as years ago.”
“I cough up a lot of phlegm,” I admitted.
“You have emphysema.”
“Emphysema?” I echoed, recalling how my father had suffered. “How bad is it?”
“Well, it’s not good. You’ve already done a lot of damage to your lungs and that’s irreversible.”
“If I were you, I’d get your end of life details taken care of if you haven’t already.”
I’m going to die, I thought. It’s funny. I had always said that I didn’t care, but now I was scared.
“I don’t want to die. I’m not ready.”
“You can slow the disease, but I’m afraid you only have about another six months.”
I left the office in a daze. I always thought of myself as indestructible.
I had to stop smoking. As a boy of seven years old, I used to smoke cigarettes by pretending to inhale, drawing the smoke into my mouth, and stopping it before it flowed down my throat.
That’s it! I’ll quit the same way, I thought. I stopped to pick up one more pack of cigarettes and lit one, holding it between my fingers. I practiced smoking without inhaling.
A constant stream of smoke swirls above me. Even before the cigarette went out, I lit another, leaving it to burn in the ashtray. It seemed to sooth my addiction. With renewed strength and determination to challenge myself, I resisted the temptation to smoke it.
For days, my body shook. The urge to smoke consumed me, but every time I reached for a cigarette, I thought about my father. I didn’t want to die like him.