All I Need is the Air That I Breathe

This is the best photo taken of me in a long, long time. There's a reason for that.

Sure the haircut is great and I am so happy that somebody finally gave me bangs, again. Stylists have been telling me for years that my wavy locks and my "very strong part and cowlick" would make bangs impossible and they refused to cut them! Also, my eyebrows were darkened - I didn't ask for it but the beautician was bored and I said, "sure, what the heck."

But, the main reason I look so good is that I had just completed a session of oxygen therapy. I wish they had taken a photo of me when I walked in the door. My complexion was ghostly pale and I had giant circles under my eyes. I've made no secret, in this blog, that I suffer from depression and anxiety. Since I've moved to such a high elevation, 7,000 feet, my anxiety has worsened and I get bad panic attacks from time to time. I was in the throes of an attack this morning, when I decided to breathe in some 02 for a half an hour.

In my initial session with my latest doctor, he pondered my heart condition and weakened lungs (from the pulmonary embolism of 2011) and told me that recent research showed heart patients had a much greater risk of depression than those with healthy hearts. Doctors are beginning to wonder if a lack of oxygen is making life more difficult for us. This is my second oxygen session (still a bit expensive for me), and I can tell you that after the first session, my anxiety was much less for several days. But this morning was agony.

I have been exercising (going for hour-long morning walks) but clearly it isn't helping me, and I frequently have to take a short nap upon my return. Not enough air is getting into my lungs. I hope oxygen therapy won't be considered too experimental and that I'll be able to get a prescription for it so that I can continue to feel better!

My Friend, Marsha

I was a 42-year-old college sophomore when I met Marsha. I accepted a work-study front desk position at my university's modern art museum. Marsha had just begun her post as a security guard. At first, she was standoffish towards me, and I don't know if it was shyness or a barrier that people of different races find difficult to overcome. Luckily, it didn't last long. In a few weeks, Marsha and I found out that we had a lot to discuss. She was amazed at the amount of papers I wrote and books I read in school. I was in awe of her energy and tenacity. Not only did she have the full-time security job, Marsha also had her own catering business and occasionally cleaned apartments and worked, now-and-then checking ID badges at the local newspaper. A very active member of her church, after Hurricane Katrina hit, she volunteered to set up a shelter for displaced Louisianans in Greensboro, should any need a temporary home.

She grew up in Greensboro, North Carolina, and remembered when it was illegal for black people to set foot on my college campus. She was present for the famous sit-in at the Woolworth counter, that started the civil rights movement. When a black man, Barack Obama, ran for president, Marsha became one of his biggest supporters and volunteered to get out the vote and help the campaign. After he was elected, a shrine was erected in a spare room, and she became an obsessive collector, with over 17 thousand Obama-related items  crowding that room. She asked everybody she knew for newspaper clippings and memorabilia. She proudly attended his inauguration ceremony.

A flight attendant friend got her free airline tickets and Marsha traveled to US cities like Las Vegas and New York and even went to London, once. When I had my open-heart surgery, she called me several times and tried to fly to Seattle to see me, but plans fell through.

A petite woman with close-cropped hair, Marsha shared with me the tragic details of her only failed marriage, that ended after a few years. However, she had an on-again, off-again boyfriend whom she rarely discussed. She never admitted her age to me, but I knew she was at least 15 years older than I. I wished I had as much "get-up-and-go" as she did. Her cigarette habit was her downfall, and she knew she had to quit - tried many times - but she battled cancer a few years ago and beat it, at least for a while.

I was overwhelmed by the work required of me in school - sometimes I wanted to quit. During my senior year, I had 17 papers due in a matter of a eight weeks. Marsha was always encouraging and reminded me of how smart I was and always said "I KNOW you can do it, Anne!" I really needed to hear those words. We had a deep love for one another - in fact, she told people I was her daughter, and I was happy to say she was my mom. We looked nothing alike. Marsha, a small black woman and me, a Germanic-looking 5 foot 10 gal. But, we used to say "can't you see the family resemblance?" as we smiled. She found a new backpack for me, when mine broke, and I got her a lovely pocketbook when I went to Tucson, AZ, at a yard sale. After my college graduation, I had my sisters come to the museum to meet her, and she became fast friends with my good friend, Bo. She always asked about him and she frequently inquired about my mother, knowing that we were estranged.

One time, I went to a garage sale at Marsha's house. I'd never been there before and I nearly drove by, before realizing I had the correct address. While I was walking up, her friends said something snide about white ladies - they thought I was snubbing the sale due to race, when I almost passed it up. But, as soon as Marsha saw me, she loudly corrected her friends and told them I was special to her.

We held hands sometimes and she must have told me she loved me at least a hundred times. After I graduated and moved away, we kept up a telephone friendship and she always ended the call by saying, "I love you, Anne". In December of 2011, I took a cross-country trip from Pennsylvania through the South. I stopped in Greensboro and shocked Marsha by dropping into the museum to surprise her. The look on her face was priceless when she realized I had come to visit. She introduced me to all of the new staff and we had a lovely afternoon. I am so very glad I went to see her. I drove through town again, in 2012, but this time, I called Marsha to tell her I was coming. However, she told me she was too busy to see me. I was hurt and unsettled by this but, for some reason, I didn't think it was personal. Somehow I knew that she was feeling poorly.

I got a message that Marsha passed away last week. Funny, I had just looked at my phone today and realized I hadn't called her in a while. R.I.P., Marsha. I love you.