What I tell people who fear using oxygen therapy
It’s rarely about oxygen; it’s about losing control
Written by |
I’ve learned that fear doesn’t always come from something that’s in front of us. Sometimes it rises from a much older place, a place the body remembers even when the mind has moved on.
I can see this clearly now that I live with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), especially when I talk with people who are terrified of using long-term oxygen therapy. Their fear isn’t about the tubing or the machine. It’s about what oxygen represents: vulnerability, dependence, and the loss of a coping system that once kept them safe.
I understand that fear because I lived a version of it long before COPD ever entered my life. In my mid‑20s, I decided I would earn my master’s degree in reading. I enrolled in an evening class taught by Eddie Kennedy, a respected West Virginia University professor who had developed a reading machine he believed could help people read faster and retain more. I walked into that classroom with confidence, unaware that an old childhood fear was about to come roaring back.
The first night, the machine flashed words across the screen faster than I could process them. The letters didn’t form words — they scattered like startled birds. The harder I tried, the worse it became. My pride kept me from crying, but inside I felt the same panic I now see in COPD patients who try oxygen for the first time. It’s the panic of wondering why something that seems simple for others feels impossible for you, and the fear that you’re somehow failing at something essential.
When class ended, Kennedy asked me to stay. He didn’t scold or sigh. He simply said, “You’re dyslexic, aren’t you?” I wasn’t sure if he was diagnosing me or cussing at me, but he continued gently. He told me he had watched me group letters into threes — a coping mechanism the machine didn’t allow time for. “You can’t pass the class using this machine,” he said, “but that’s not your fault.”
He asked how I distinguished a “b” from a “d,” and I showed him how one pointed right and the other left. We went through “u” and “r,” “3” and “E,” and a handful of others that had always tangled me up. Then he asked when I first remembered grouping letters. I didn’t remember choosing it, but I remembered the fear — that childhood moment when the teacher told us to read the word lists at the back of the book. I can still see “house” and “horse” blurring together, my heart pounding as if the world depended on getting it right. I didn’t have trouble when reading them in a sentence, as the context clues gave me the answer.
“That’s when you built your system,” he said. “You found a way to survive something that overwhelmed you.”
He gave me a project instead of the machine and told me I’d earn a B if the report pleased him. It wasn’t pity. It was understanding.
Naming the fear
It took me years to understand the gift he gave me. He had named my fear. He had named the coping. And he had named the intelligence underneath both. That same pattern shows up in COPD. When someone panics at the sight of oxygen, it’s rarely about oxygen. It’s about losing control, being seen as vulnerable, being forced to rely on something outside themselves, and having their old coping systems stripped away. Just like that reading machine stripped away mine.
The young woman in Kennedy’s class wasn’t failing. She was adapting. She had built a system that let her move through a world not designed for her brain. When the machine demanded a different way of functioning, the fear returned — not because she was incapable, but because she was human. Oxygen can feel the same way. It asks us to breathe differently, to trust differently, to accept help differently. And that can stir up every old fear we thought we’d outgrown.
What Kennedy offered me — and what I now try to offer others living with COPD — was a reframing: Your fear makes sense. Your coping makes sense. And none of it diminishes your intelligence, your worth, or your strength. Oxygen isn’t a test. It’s a tool. And tools work best when paired with compassion, especially compassion for yourself.
If oxygen frightens you, remember this: The fear may be older than the machine in front of you. It may come from a time when you were small and trying your best. You survived that season. You’ll survive this one, too. And somewhere in the middle of it, you may even discover — as I once did — that understanding yourself is its own kind of breath.
Note: COPD News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult your physician or other qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of COPD News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues about chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.
Leave a comment
Fill in the required fields to post. Your email address will not be published.