In the shadows

 

A gentle breeze tickled the back of my neck and coaxed me out of a fresh sleep. The zephyr danced lightly around my shoulders before cognition had returned enough to help me make a connection between this strange sensation and the window I'd forgotten had been left open to the night air.

I am awake. And awake I will stay, I think, at least for a while. I angle my pillow and prop my head against it until the tension in my neck relaxes. I dismiss the idea of pulling the covers over my shoulders. This shiver I feel is not from the cold. Summer’s lingering humidity tempers the chill.

The sounds of crickets sharpen from a low drone to something that seems more defined ... more personal ... a duet maybe? Then a solo.

The sound of air seems to rush all around me. A ceiling fan keeps churning though I don’t feel any of its effects. The dog snorts and exhales every so often, startling the cat whose purr turns into a snore. All systems, normal.

I listen for air currents downstairs, but the sounds of it can't penetrate the floor. Or perhaps, the sounds I can hear wall it off. I wonder if I should get up and go down. Make sure all is right with the universe, which includes a new wrinkle.

I need to relax. But not just yet.

I breathe in, one nostril refusing at first to open. More breathing. I'm not worried. Eventually, it will soften and allow the flow of air to enter more evenly.  It's a familiar pattern I've attributed to allergies but is probably the alternate-side breathing that happens automatically, though we're not supposed to notice.   

But I notice everything about this luxury of air now. 

A machine the size of a suitcase that an airline would make you stow in the belly of the plane for an exorbitant price, is downstairs, producing oxygen for my father. 

With rhythmic frequency, it hisses and ticks as it supplies him with the most basic of needs. 

He is staying with us for a while as he adjusts to this new normal. Leashed, as he must be, to a dozen yards of coiled tubing delivering purified air.

It takes some getting used to; having to think about breathing. Having to walk slower, do fewer tasks, remind yourself to inhale. Try to stay calm.

He still tinkers: adjusting this or that every so often. Experimenting with things that are obvious to him ... less so to me. As he walks around the house, he coils the leash of tubing and wraps it around midway anchor points; the finials of chair-backs mostly, the occasional knob of a cabinet door.  

I understand this compulsion. It seems only fitting that "medical things" should be kept off the floor. I follow behind and quietly untether it before the furniture topples. This is a task I repeat several times a day.

It's nice having him here. His presence is comforting, especially when he is humming a wordless tune from his youth as he makes toast. 

But it’s scary, too. Eventually, there will come a silence that will create a hole in this little part of the universe. I listen for it constantly. ... For the air whistling around him. A wheeze or a gasp. My breath always catches when he tells me, “I’m having a problem,” until he adds a specification that lets me know whatever it is, it’s something I can fix: “Technology is such a pain in the ... My phone isn’t ringing.”

I try to savor the relief as I walk him through this valley of the shadows of his iPhone.