I’m on the struggle bus. I was sick for almost ten full days, meaning I started to recover on the tenth day. Not a fun time, but I’m well now.
It’s been raining so much here!
Jay and Art are riding their bikes in a lot of wet. And my husband is struggling a bit to build up his strength for this. We still have two months yet. I think, as someone who worked out like a madwoman from the age of twenty until my heart diagnosis in 2012, that he was pushing too hard and not allowing enough recovery time. Now he is taking it easier until he hits his ‘stride.’ I honestly believe there is a part of him that has some fear since his older brother was killed by an inattentive driver while riding his bike in this very city. That driver admitted he was using his phone and was distracted by his special needs child in the back seat, so he didn’t see John, despite all John’s reflective gear and lights on his bike. He was never given a citation for killing John. John was brain-dead, and my poor sister-in-law had to make the devastating decision to allow the machines keeping him alive to be shut off. He was only seventy years old. Jay can’t help but be reminded of this while riding here. They started using bike trails today, which they will take most of the time on the cross-country trip anyway, and I think that will help alleviate some of the stress he’s dealing with.
I mentioned in a previous post that I had respiratory failure on Christmas Eve in 2015 and had to be intubated for sixteen days. They used an intubation tube that was too large for me, and it damaged, actually paralyzed, my vocal cords. When I first came home from the hospital and rehabilitation center, I was on oxygen full-time. That felt like an anchor that would keep me from living the life I wanted to, so I visited a voice specialist in Denver, Colorado, where we were living at the time. He gave me very little hope and basically said any surgery would further damage my voice. I was still trying to work, so I couldn’t take that chance. Later, we moved to another state, and it became clear that the remaining struggles with my health would make holding a job impossible. I began publishing my writing not long after. However, I hated my oxygen tank, which I affectionately (NOT) named Beelzebub.
Big B (not actually him) and some of his Minions:
I’d already lost my singing voice and my professional speaking voice. What did I have to lose aside from saying goodbye to the Big B? I saw another voice specialist in Utah, and despite the knowledge that my voice might worsen, but a tiny chance it might improve, I had surgery to open up my breathing passage from two centimeters, resulting in my no longer needing to be on oxygen. The normal space for air in our bodies is fifteen centimeters. Currently, mine is not nearly that much, but Beelzebub is no longer in my life, thank goodness.
Our move from Denver, Colorado, also referred to as the Mile High City (5280 feet), to Utah lowered my elevation by 250 feet. Slightly lower, but I noticed no difference. Since arriving in Colorado Springs, Colorado, I’ve struggled to breathe. The altitude here is 6035 feet. It’s significant enough to have caused some issues. Yuck! I’m frustrated, but as I often say, it is what it is. I ordered a small portable oxygen concentrator that should help until we leave here.
What it looks like:
It can be charged in the car or plugged into a wall, and I can carry it in a backpack as it’s under five pounds. It provides up to two liters, which should be helpful when I’m awake. Until it arrives, I’m using canned oxygen that the athletes use to help during games in high elevations. And I’ll be thrilled to move to a lower altitude as we begin the bike trip!
On Hummingbirds Wings 