Yesterday, I was at Mr. T.D.'s doing the carpet and some other housekeeping. I don't think I said too much about the T.D.'s , partly because they seem to be very private people. They were also very slow to warm up to me.

I guess I'm so used to people knowing me for 5 minutes and handing me their house keys, or, in offices, turning over their books and / or all kinds of crucial information to me that I wonder about it when people behave normally: checking my references, "trying me out" etc. I certainly respect sensible people, I try to be one myself. I often say to people, ( handing back their house key) " Are you sure you want me to have this? I have a list of references right here, and I'm not at all offended if you want to give them a call"

"Oh, you're all right." they say, waving a hand. They're right, of course. I've never broken trust with anybody, no matter how bad they treated me or how mad they made me....but such experiences do color one's view of the world, over time.

Anyway, it turns out that the T.D.'s have had a seriously bad experience with some help they've had in the past: so bad I was burnt up at the offender for days after it all came out. I can't stand people who take advantage of people who can't defend themselves.

Moreover, some people might think that Mr. T.D. brought some of his health problems on himself, and though I don't think so, I also don't believe in blaming someobody if their particular vices lead to circumstances that then get out of their control. Don't get me wrong: everybody is responsible for their own actions, and must accept the consequences that result. But the consequences for vices are not evenly distributed among people.

In my own case, I've always been grateful that I can escape from desperate thoughts by reading a good book or throwing myself into some work or project. Both of my serious vices can be mistaken as virtues - but that's only because of the society I live in.

Mr. T.D. is a very heavy man, and for many years, by his own admission, he didn't give his weight any mind. Then he got diabetes, which is an illness anyone can get and as he grew older he got other health problems. The result is that he is confined to his home and there to a chair or to bed. But he has, since his last illness, lost a great deal of weight, and is determined to lose even more and walk again. He has a little set of dumb bells with which he does chair excersises, he gets up on his walker and stands for a few minutes, he listens to lively music and moves his feet and hands in time . Sure, maybe at one time he was careless of his health and stubborn, but if the consequences for carelessness and stubborness are always so grave than me and half the people I know are headed for some very serious trouble!

Anyway, Mr. T.D. is a lively,pleasant, pretty smart man who enjoys company and conversation. Mrs. T.D. is also lively and pleasant, and involved with her family and grandchildren. Mr. T.D. is only the "stay at home type" because he cannot get out, and he relies on Mrs. T.D. to bring the world to him by way of library books, c.d.'s, videos, visits with family and friends which she relates to him in detail. Now that they feel more comfortable with me, they want me to act as much as a trustworthy companion to Mr. T.D. as much as a housekeeper, and they were clear about this from the beginning. Because, for a man who cannot get up the smallest things can become serious problems: someone is at the door, he can't get up to open it. Something spills, he can't reach it to clean it up. He hears a weird noise, he can't go check on it. I know from my own experience how frightening it can be to not be able to get around and be left alone - and I had a dog!

So anyway, Mrs. T.D. had gone to babysit one of the grandkids, Mr. T.D. had just done some of his excersise when he called to me as I was cleaning the back bathroom.

"Hey, Tea, I think this line for my oxygen must be stuck under a chair. Can you get it out for me, please?"

"Sure, no problem, let me see. Oh, yep, it's up under that arm chair. There you go. Has that got it?"

"Hmm. I don't know. Here, feel this nose piece. I don't feel anything coming out, do you?"

I felt it. I didn't. Oh God.

"No, I don't actually. Well, maybe the line is just kinked up somewhere. Happens to Mr. C.B. all the time, these lines get kinked. How do you feel?"

"Well, I'm all right, but I could really use this oxygen. I kind of wore myself out. Got a little short of breath there. I've been doing really good. Haven't had to use this for a couple of days....but....I'm feeling pretty short of breath."

And looking greyer by the minute. I have to say that the book that was most useful to me in this situation was not, in fact, The Bible. It was The Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Addams. DON'T PANIC.

I know, from having asthma, that all that happens when somebody tells you to try to breathe normally is that you become annoyed with them. The normal human response to not being able to breathe is panic: it takes YEARS of work and a tremendous effort to start doing breathing excersises etc and thereby not make yourself worse. People like Writer Rick, who have had asthma their whole lives have a head start on those of us who got adult onset asthma...but when people in their late 60's start to develop breathing problems you can't just expect them to have a zen attitude about it.

The tubing may have had a hole in it. Mr. T.D. didn't know where replacement tubing was. Searches in obvious places did not turn anything up, except a sock that had been m.i.a. for some months. I was trying very hard to do all of this looking as quickly and effeciently as possible without looking like I was at all frightened or worried. I tried to maintain the expression of a woman who is sure that the next place she looks will turn up what she needs.

Anyway, all of that turned out to be unhelpful to the root cause of the problem, which was that the machine that generates the oxygen had stopped working. Mechanical failure. Turn it on, turn it off, plug it back in, wiggle the wires, check the connections and I'm at the end of my technical expetise. There was an 800 number on the side of the thing, Thank God.

"Well, we'll just call for service and somebody'll come out and get this fixed up right away." I say, as if I'm getting ready to order a pizza. By now, Mr. T.D. was so frightened and out of breath he just nodded at me. I took the phone and went around behind him under the pretext of looking at the machine while it rang on....forever. I didn't want him to see my face. As soon as I got a human being, I put on my I-command-you-to-pay-attention-to-me-bill-collector-voice.

"This is the housekeeper for the T.D.'s speaking. Mr. T.D. needs oxygen. The machine is not functioning. He needs someone to come for service as quickly as possible." Dear God, please let me get this man his oxygen!

The representative went over the problem with me in detail. I was patiant. I explained over and over "There is nothing coming out."

"The converter" she muttered. "I'll send someone right away."

"Could I have a time frame please?"

"By 5:00". It was just then 3:00. I relayed all that to Mr. T.D. "What can I do to help you feel better?"

"Well, maybe if I had my c-pap machine. All it does is blow air....but it would make me feel better...."

"Okay, no problem." So I got it, hooked it up and he used it for a few minutes. He and I were both thinking the same thing....that just the sensation of air going up his nose would trick his body into calming down. He was willing himself to be fooled and I admired him greatly for it.

It worked. He did feel better. He set the mouthpiece for the c-pap aside, his color improved, and I kept him engaged in light conversation. But I didn't dare go into the back bedroom to dust, and I was relieved that Mrs. T.D. understood why when she got home at 4:30.

Note to self: time to get CPR certified. Like NOW.