It starts with a story; the reason why your loved one was diagnosed with COPD. For me, I learned that my grandfather started smoking at the age of five.
Soon after I learned that, later in his life, he fought in the Vietnam War where he inhaled agent orange and received laterite poisoning because of it. As a child, none of it really registers, but then you grow up and you start to witness the noticeable effects of the lung disease.
During my high school career, we moved within feet from my grandfather's house. At that time, there were bad days, but he usually just needed his meds and good company. We bonded over coffee and hundreds of episodes of Law and Order: SVU, even when some of those moments served as a distraction from the COPD.
But then, as time passes, the difficulties that come along with COPD started following my grandfather like the plague. When I would spend the night at his house, I would wake to the sound of my name being called repeatedly.
On those nights, anxiety and COPD tag teamed, sending my grandfather into a panic attack following the short walk to and from the bathroom. He rested on the floor on his hands and knees, asking me or anyone else that was around to rub his back in hopes that it would calm him down and he would be able to sit up or stand again.
Later on in the disease, it gets to a point when your loved one can no longer live on their own. Under the same roof, you start to experience every single battle to breathe and hear every single restless night. You watch as they stop walking further than they have to so they can save their breath. Breathing becomes a workout for them and it's not just a family dinner where you watch your loved one struggle for a few hours and leave at the end of the night.
Every day, I witness my grandfather, who was once too proud to ask for help, ask for it often because he simply cannot do many things for himself at this stage in his COPD. I witness the dried tears after a family member leaves from visiting, because he fears that it will be the last time he sees them. I hear him repeat the words, "please, Lord, please" for hours throughout the day because he fears that his last breath has escaped him.
His plea echoes through the vents and into the basement where I find myself wishing there was a way to help him catch his breath. There are nights when he asks me to sit in his room with him because the thought of suffering by himself is unbearable.
Over time, I have watched my grandfather lose weight, and watched as his med intake increase. Everyone starts checking to make sure that he's breathing in his sleep as they walk past his room just in case something changed between now and five minutes ago.
But despite these moments filled with the difficulties caused by COPD, I have gotten the chance to get to know my grandfather for who he really is. Every step my grandfather takes is filled with bravery and strength. I get to witness his oddball sense of humor and drink unhealthy amounts of coffee with him as we talk about what he was like growing up.
I get to listen him complain about his least favorite character on "NCIS" (DiNozzo) when "Law and Order" isn't on TV. And I get the chance to tell him at the end of every conversation that I love him. Through all of the chaos that comes along with living with a loved one with COPD, I choose to find beauty in the small moments because at the end of the day, those are the moments I want to remember.
