Calmly I said as Steve answered his cell phone, "There is a problem with my oxygen concentrator. No air." "I am out the door," he replied.
I reached for my little emergency aerosol can of 120 hits of oxygen and put my gauge on my finger. The Army breathed with me...deep inhales through the nose, slow steady exhales through pursed lips. We went through our trouble shooting checklist as the machine continued is alert.
Electricity to house...functional.
Off then on again switch...no response.
My saturation rate...a bit low but holding steady.
The WDA offered furs to pet and nuzzles to keep away panic; others watched at the window for Pumpkin, the van. Roman pressed against me as if his thoughts alone could solve the problem.
Eight minutes later Steve ran into the house and the Army parted to let him get right to the machine. There was a yellow warning light on. In a flash, he disconnected the hose from the malfunctioning machine and moved it to the nighttime/backup where he quickly changed out lines and turned on a flow of oxygen.
We were safe and back in control. With the supervision of White Dog, Steve moved hoses around so they were not a tripping hazard. Then he called the medical supply house.
They promised to send a new unit over this afternoon and to call Steve's cell as they neared so that he could be home to help manage pups and moving units around. I was fine. Steve double-checked all the connections. My numbers were normal.
"I am going back to the office," he said reluctantly, "But will be back when they deliver a functioning model." White Dog and The Army promised they would not leave my side.
The new unit arrived late in the day and when Steve came in he announced to the relief of all that he was going to work here for the last bit of his workday.
White Dog called for a round of jerky to reward the excellent response and focus of my team. "Momma is pretty high maintenance but we all got her through this. Wonderful job! And please note, the new machine is MUCH quieter."
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