It’s not even summer yet, and I already feel like I need a vacation. Not a weekend away. Not a staycation. A real, proper, stretch-out-on-the-sand-and-do-nothing kind of break. One with ocean breezes, soft waves, and a chair that molds to my body like it knows I’ve been carrying the weight of too many years.
Summer is my busiest time of the year, and I usually brace myself for the long haul. But something’s shifted. My endurance just isn’t what it used to be. Ever since my lung collapsed in 2021 and I had pleurodesis surgery to repair it, my breathing has never quite recovered. In fact, it’s been on a slow, steady decline. Add age into the mix — I’m 63 now — and, well, things don’t bounce back like they once did.
People often tell me I don’t look 63, and maybe they mean it. But sometimes I think they say it to be kind. Because there are mornings when I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t recognize the tired old man looking back. The face is mine, but the spark feels dulled. It’s a strange kind of grief, quietly mourning who you used to be, even as you’re still here.
And I am still here. That’s not lost on me. I was told I wouldn’t make it to fifty. Yet here I stand. Still fighting. Still creating. Still working. Some days are better than others — lately, more bad than good — but every day I wake up, I count it as a win.
Still, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t wear on me — the slowing down, the limits, the truth of aging and illness. It sucks. There’s no poetic spin to put on that. But I’ve made peace with the idea that I won’t always be who I once was. What matters is that I’m still here, doing what I love, however I can.
So I’ll push through the summer. I’ll do the work, keep the pace, and carry myself through the season the best I can. But come September? I’m gone.
I can’t fly anymore — my lungs won’t allow it — so I’m driving. Maybe down to Delaware, maybe up to Cape Cod. Not sure which way the wind will take me yet. But one thing’s certain: I will find my way to the water. This island boy needs his beaches. Needs to sit by the sea and just be for a while.
Because sometimes, surviving isn’t just about pushing through — it’s about knowing when to pause, when to breathe, and when to let the waves carry you.
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Tate Basildon 
When you want to get away, NOTHING is better for the soul than finding a sandy beach and watch the ocean roll in. There’s just something majestic about it that clears the mind and washes away all the stress in your body. It’s what my husband and I did nearly every September. The perfect time because it’s off-peak for vacation house rentals on the beach. Or a condo on the beach. We would have to go on vacations for about 10 days to give me a few days to adjust my breathing and energy level to the new climate. After resting a few days, we were off to find some fun or wade in the water. Though it was a bit tricky having to use oxygen in the ocean but we figured it out with a 50ft tubing connected to my half-buried-in-a trash bag oxygen tank. If there’s a will, we always found a way. I had to stop flying for the same reason as you back when I was in my 20s. The pressurization of the airplane cabin just wasn’t enough. I couldn’t drive through mountains because of the elevation was too brutal on my lungs. I’d get sick. Driving to Vegas and California was interesting! But we did it. I hope you get your beach vacation.
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Thanks Christine. I’m genuinely grateful for my Inogen—portable freedom in a shoulder strap. And honestly, I admire your grit. I catch myself grumbling about lugging my oxygen around in a backpack like it’s some kind of fashion statement. But now, every time I start whining, I’ll picture you strolling the beach, dragging a long cannula like it’s a kite tail—and give myself a well-deserved mental smack. Consider me officially out of excuses.
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