I invite my chair closer to the window and breathe in the promise of verdant air. Through the window screen, I watch a plump robin bobbing on the lawn and notice the swaying branches of the weeping cherry tree dancing in a rare summer breeze. I want to settle into the moment and saturate my lungs with this deliciousness, but a friend needs me to drive her to the hair stylist. She can’t walk or stand for long, because her lungs plead for breath in between souvenirs of gasps and coughs from over thirty years of smoking. She tells me she doesn’t like the way her new oxygen tank pulses intermittently instead of releasing a steady stream like the first tank she had. This one makes it cumbersome for her to breathe. But the tank with the steady stream of oxygen emptied too quickly, and it was expensive to keep refilling it. She can’t afford it, this luxury of comfortable breath.

After getting her situated in the front passenger seat, I put her walker and an extra
oxygen tank in the back. Always anticipating a struggle for breath, she has me carry the
extra tank in and out of every place we go.

“’Cause you never know,” her fear warns her.

I think of the days when I was a smoker. A cool, hip teenager. Years ago. The corners of my mouth droop down when I think about how I polluted my temple body. With a shiver of my spine, I imagine the consequences of my past unwise choices rattling through my chest. Breath that could have been labored had I not quit now effortlessly sates my lungs. During yoga, meditation, sleep, and in every living moment. I am grateful for this precious gift of breath.

I sit in the waiting area at the hair salon, inhaling toxic chemical fumes from permanent solutions, and wonder if my past days of lung abuse will eventually show up for revenge? Will I have to carry around a tank full of pulses of air everywhere I go? Have I sold my lungs for a fleeting moment of delusional, youthful cool?

I hear my friend tell her stylist the story about her new oxygen tank that ‘pulses.’

The stylist says, “Oh, that’s not good.”

My friend says, “No, it’s not. Cough. Cough. I always carry an extra tank with me, ‘cause you never know.”

​

They talk enthusiastically about eucharistic ministers and choir members from a
church they both attend. They are excited about some new music they will hear during
the service this Sunday. My friend says she misses singing. She says she “longs to feel
the music in her throat," but her “lungs get all locked up” when she tries.
 
I hear the abrasive scrape of her walker on the hard tiled floor as she rolls up to the reception desk. And I hear the choppy pulse of her oxygen tank hissing, like the
constant, raspy threat of a hospital ventilator. Her haircut looks good. She appears lighter. I’d even say refreshed if it wasn’t for the loose cough escaping as she pays the
receptionist.

We arrive back at her home, and she rests into her chair just in time for Wheel of
Fortune. The oxygen tank continues to pulse but seems more subdued now and in rhythm with the clicks of the contestant spinning the wheel. We say a quick goodbye until next time.

Driving home I think of my friend in her chair, calling out a vowel, struggling for breath and coughing. I wish I could fix it for her. I roll down my window and am aware of the privileged swell in my chest as I inhale and fill my lungs with air. Turning on the radio, I make sure to notice how I too, can feel the music in my throat as I unlock my lungs and sing out loud.

‘Cause you never know.