AROUND THE KITCHEN TABLE

By Joan Eyolfson Cadham

I received the perfect gift a few days ago. All gifts are special, but this one was most remarkable because it came from an adult. I have received this same gift before, but it has almost always come from children.

I was in Saskatoon for a four-day retreat offered by the Prairie Centre for Ecumenism. There were about 30 of us, an enthusiastic ecumenical group. The theme of the retreat, led by Rev. Tom Ryan, CSP, was Teach us to Number Our Days. We took a look at life’s cycles, and explored depths of thought that ran far deeper than the current North American conviction that if we swallow enough vitamins, work out at the gym four times a week and eat the right food, we will live forever.

“Dying has a purpose,” said Father Tom. It’s the prospect of death that makes us get up and do something, to make goals and to accomplish them. If we knew we would live forever, we would just slide along, figuring, forever, that we could “do it” tomorrow.

It was an intense four days, as, wrapped in laughter, stimulating conversation and song, we explored serious issues. Perhaps that’s why the gift giver in question felt safe to approach me.

“Does wearing the oxygen bother you?” she asked.

Normally when I am out in crowds, most people pretend that my plastic whiskers and humming little oxygen concentrator don’t exist — or are, at the very least, invisible. They avert their eyes when they talk to me. They check out my jewelry, my sweater, my shoes.

Apparently, the act of making eye contact with the tubing and the machine could be a moment fraught with danger. They want to know, they are burning with questions, but they are afraid to ask. Afraid of embarrassing me? Maybe, though I was embarrass-proofed long ago. Afraid of embarrassing themselves by asking a question? Who knows? Afraid of being considered nosy, of asking prying, personal questions? I wonder.

It is not so with children. Children are curious and they are open and honest about that curiosity. Kids spot those plastic whiskers from half a block away. Very comfortably, they stare. They are fascinated. And that’s fine with me. I make a point of getting close enough to say — to the child and not the parent — “They look like whiskers, don’t they? I have problems breathing and this little machine helps me.”

That explanation makes absolute sense to a child. He or she has gotten the necessary information, and that’s all that was wanted. After all, how often do kids encounter an adult who looks like she’s half cat?

Not so with adults, unfortunately. Afraid to ask the questions that are just beyond reach of the tongue, they avoid the issue — and that often forces them to avoid me.

Perhaps the concentrator is part of the problem — with adults, not with kids. A generous gift from a member of my national boating organization and some caring people in Foam Lake, my concentrator looks for all the world like my black camera bag. I wear it over my right shoulder — just like my camera bag. The only difference is that there’s a plastic hose connecting the bag to my nose, and the machine hums. It’s battery operated, collects room air, filters it, concentrates the oxygen, is user friendly and lasts longer than a portable oxygen tank — but it is different. Different doesn’t bother kids. Different does bother adults.

Therefore, having Sister Donna simply and directly ask me, during a coffee and stretch break, about life with oxygen, was an amazing gift. “No,” I was able to tell her, in complete honesty. “It doesn’t bother me at all. The oxygen is my gift of life. The concentrator has given me the opportunity to continue living my life as I want to live it, with just a few of the most minor adjustments.”

We agreed that my portable concentrator was an amazing piece of technology and how fortunate I was that it had been invented in time for me to take advantage of its benefits. We even talked about living with something that some people might consider a disability but I simply consider a little challenge. My Viking DNA responds positively to challenges.

If Donna had been feeling sorry for me, she quit. That was my gift back to her, I suppose, though, from my point of view, not having people feel sorry for me is a gift to me.

Which reminds me. The next time I encounter a curious child, I need to add one extra sentence to my short explanation. It’s this: “Nope, those little prongs that stick into my nose don’t hurt a bit.”

Eyolfson Cadham is an award-winning columnist and freelance journalist who moved from Montreal to Foam Lake in 1992. She is a member of Sask Writers Guild and is an oral storyteller with professional status with Storytellers of Canada.