You can't really make plans with COPD sitting on your chest...it's hopeless to decide that tomorrow we'll go off to the ocean for instance, 'cos tomorrow arrives bright and early and I feel like a grubby dish rag...getting to the bathroom is like trudging through treacle and all I really want to do is sleep...preferably for the entire day...
I stick my finger into the oxymeter and recoil in horror when the stats are so low I must surely be dead and haven't realised it yet...sit down cautiously and eat a bowl of cornflakes carefully...do a bit of pursed mouth breathing and by lunchtime I'm grand again...slinging open the front door to greet the postie...not a bother on me.
It doesn't last.
By mid-afternoon on those sort of days, I'm totally knackered and can hardly keep my eyes open...longing for bed but determined not to give in. Do the oxymeter again and my pulse is racing so I decide it isn't working properly and shove it back in the drawer...
Himself says I look 'a bit grey' so I stagger to the bathroom to look in the mirror and it's such a scary sight my pulse drops back to normal out of sheer fright...while I'm there I put a bit of make-up on...leaning against the window-sill to stop from falling over, with cannulas up my nose and glasses on my face, slapping a dollop of Max Factor Eight Hour foundation on is a hazardous business...forget eyeliner and mascara...jabbing the mascara wand into the corner of an eye is asking for trouble...eyeliner carefully applied, or so I happily imagine, makes me look like a drag queen when I put my specs back on...
So I re-emerge and ask Himself if there's been any kind of improvement...and he answers that I just look a bit tired and would I like a cup of tea...
Feeling this way might last for just one day...sometimes it's for two...then all changes again and although I doubt I'll ever be full of vim and vigour again, at least I can write and read my latest book...walk round the garden centre, so long as I have a trolley to lean on...dead head the pansies and wish all manner of ill-will on the slugs that have nibbled their little faces...I can root about on ancestral trees and look up occupations I'm uncertain of...do a few more rows of the blanket I'm making.
Those better days do last longer than the bad ones...for that I'm grateful...but I'd like to know in advance when the bad days are coming.