Billy Be Breathing

I'm sitting here connected to an oxygen tank.  A very large one.  It was a compromise with my doctor . . . a tube in your nose at home, or go back in the hospital.  I emailed a group of friends that all I need now is a rocking chair, a net for my hair, and some knitting needles.  One of them, mustering as little empathy as possible, simply responded, "What hair?"

If there is an opposite to the book I'm reading, "The Art Of Happiness," it would be a book about health insurance companies, "The Art of Discomfort and Bowel-Irritating Insidiousness."  As much as I try to avoid reading it, it's a perfect example of the negative that comes into our lives every day that we must confront.

My insurance company made it as difficult as possible for me to get the oxygen.  I suppose it's their job to try to save money, but they fail to see the alternative of me being back in the hospital.

So it was a long day yesterday, calling three doctor's offices a number of times, two different divisions of my insurance company, and three oxygen supply companies.  (The insurance kept changing suppliers, requiring me to get the approvals and records to all of them.)  The absolute irony is that the total cost was only $120.

Later in the day, a friend sent me a new website he just designed honoring another friend of ours who died.  It suddenly put life back in perspective of what is really important.  Not that getting oxygen to my heart and brain are not important, but injecting love and tears into my heart felt so much better.  One would think I could have both oxygen and love, but when I cry, my nose runs and it blocks the oxygen tube.

And for anyone who cares, I'm getting Homo2 Oxygen and my liter flow is 2.