“The only thing you can assume about a broken-down old man is that he is a survivor.”
— The late James Caan as Joe Sarno in The Way of the Gun, in a clip at 3:27.
I am not, fortunately, broken down. I was, and am again, in good shape and good health, although no longer young. But any of us at any age may face health problems and other threats. And I remain a survivor.
It was on Wednesday, December 18, 2024, when I finally figured out how to get the help I needed, without going to the hospital emergency room. For almost two months, I had suffered from what I thought was bronchitis, which is caused by a virus, and thus not treatable with antibiotics. I had ruled out pneumonia because I had no fever. I had lost my appetite, my healthy weight, and my strength, and I was losing sleep because of coughing. I could barely walk up and down stairs.
I had shed my previous doctor, and the wait for a new one would have been six months. I finally called a medical practice I had used before for an unrelated matter. The office confirmed that the practice covered bronchitis and that a doctor could see me in three weeks. I explained I would likely be dead in two weeks. I was added to the waiting list in case there was a cancellation.
Fortunately, just two days later, on Friday, the office called me; there was now an opening on Monday. I responded that that would be perfect.
On Monday, December 23, I visited the clinic. I first met with an assistant and the woman she was training. After some preliminary questions and checks, the assistant checked my blood oxygen saturation. In an urgent tone, she advised me that I needed oxygen and immediately put me on it.
The doctor then joined us. He was an immigrant — charming, smart, and, like the assistant, kind and compassionate. I explained the history. He considered possible diagnoses, with pneumonia as the most likely, noting that it sometimes does not cause a fever.
I was relieved to hear this, since pneumonia is bacterial and therefore curable with antibiotics. The doctor confirmed he would indeed prescribe one and asked me to visit a nearby clinic for a blood test on my way home. I would also need oxygen.
He said he considered sending me to the hospital, but that I was managing well on my own. I noted that I preferred to be home because I needed to care for Eve, my surviving cat. I shook his hand again and thanked him for saving my life.
The assistant made a call to get two oxygen concentrators, one for home and the other a portable machine, delivered to me that day. I was touched by her kindness and concern, and when I had a routine follow-up with the clinic months later, I asked to see her and thanked her again.
The woman who took my blood was kind and sympathetic. I was again fortunate.
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I began recovering almost immediately after starting the antibiotic, including regaining my appetite and weight. I was on oxygen for about three weeks and slowly got my strength back.
The home oxygen concentrator was made in China. I could not identify the origin of the portable machine, but it is likely that at least some of its components were also made in China. I ordered a fingertip oximeter from Amazon to monitor my blood oxygen — and my pulse, which had risen because of the illness. The oximeter, too, was made in China.
I had had no idea how devastating pneumonia could be. In the spring, I got vaccinated for future protection. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) guidance for the vaccines is here.
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All I wanted for Christmas was to live, able to care for the creature dependent on me — and one other thing, the restoration of liberty, with free immigration and free trade.
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