I aimlessly scroll through Instagram and see friends and strangers out and about maskless. People are traveling. People are hanging out in groups indoors. Plans are made, vacations are taken. Remote work is done in AirBnBs exploring new places in off-hours. Beautiful mountains, shining seas, white beaches, deep forests, and city skylines flash before my eyes. 

I think about where we could go for a break from being home for over two years straight and realize that even with COVID cases dropping and feeling more confident going to in-person medical appointments, I am still tethered to oxygen. Even if we wanted to go somewhere, I would have to pack up my trilogy machine, my oxygen compressor, and enough oxygen tanks for the drive, exploring, you-name-it. And if we were to pack up all those items, I cannot really hike and explore due to my limited mobility caused by shortness of breath. The world is opening up but I am still stuck. I am trying my best but am trapped because of my lung disease, holding out hope for a lung transplant. 

My excursions out of the house are limited to medical appointments or picking up medication through the drive thru at Walgreens. And the latter of the two Sam usually does because I am too tired to switch to an oxygen tank and make the effort out to the car in the driveway.

I sit, I cannot get comfortable. My neck muscles are sore as are my shoulder muscles and upper back from breathing. And to add to that I did not sleep well last night. I kept tossing and turning and it has left me with a debt of spoons I do not know how to get back. 

I’m on the tan faux leather couch in the office I rub my sore neck and glare at the treadmill. I am tired and bleary eyed but know that I have to exercise. Exercise has proven to help reduce shortness of breath for COPD patients. So…I know I have to exercise. I know it. But I just don’t want to. I do, I will, I try, I do my best but not without first grumbling power words. It seems so simple. 30 minutes, that’s all. 3.5% of my awake hours in the day. 

But 30 minutes of walking at a slow pace or popping up on the stationary bike is difficult. When I start to exercise, it feels like I’m drawing breath through a cocktail straw. It doesn’t help that I’ve never been interested in exercising. Nothing has ever made my feet feel more like wet bags of sand than dragging myself toward the glass doors of a lit up gym containing sweaty energetic exercise enthusiasts concentrating on their pace and reps. Even as far back as high school I opted out of gym class and replaced it with “independent study” in which I did yoga classes in a small studio on 5th Avenue and occasional 9-hole rounds of golf with my mom over on Wilson Road. I can appreciate people taking care of themselves, sure, but purposefully going to the gym or running outside? Not my thing. To each their own. I would rather get food poisoning. 

I am tired. I am tired and grumpy and do not want to exercise. I have the whole day, but I know it will only get harder and harder for me to breathe and find motivation later in the day. I want to take a break, desperately. I want to travel. I want to go back up to the cabin in the UP. I want to go fish in the smokies. I want to go sit on a patio at a restaurant and order food without worrying about catching something or how full my oxygen tank is. I want to walk in a park. I want to walk out into my own backyard and sit on the deck without swapping from my oxygen compressor to an oxygen tank. 

But right now that is not an option and I have to be okay with that. I get up and go make myself another latte, a caramel one this time, and walk back to the office, sip slowly, and look for a new book to read. My little cup of happiness mixed with new pages to get lost in. My own, small vacation sitting on the tan faux leather couch across from the treadmill in our home.