O2 Little*

My dad requested oxygen in late November, when just climbing the stairs to his bedroom became a major exertion. For nearly three months, three green cylinders, a trolley, regulator, hoses and nose tubes languished in the corner of his bedroom. Partly because he had a temporary overall improvement after beginning chemotherapy, but also, I know, out of pride and desire not to concede to his disease. By my observations, the latter reasons sustained his abstainance for much too long.

The tanks languish no longer. In fact, within days of his first use of them, his need has grown such that, rather than periodically refilling the empties, the tanks will be summarily replaced with an oxygen concentrator machine, which will ensure a steady, unending supply.

^*For the non-scientists among you, ‘O₂’ is standard chemical notation for the oxygen we breathe.