The Day I Met My Oxygen Twin (And Learned Absolutely Nothing)

Every now and then, life hands you a moment so oddly specific you wonder if the universe is trying to make eye contact with you. This memory comes from years ago—back when I was still getting used to the idea that carrying portable oxygen didn’t automatically make me the world’s saddest parade float. I had pulled into the parking lot of some store I barely remember now—one of those places where you always vow to “run in quickly,” and then emerge forty-five minutes later clutching things you definitely didn’t need but were absolutely on sale.

As I parked, another car slid into the spot beside me. Out stepped a guy who looked suspiciously like he could’ve been my age—or maybe slightly younger if you squinted and ignored the weariness that chronic illness bakes into our bones. Then he pulled out a blue Helios 300 portable oxygen system. The same one I used. The exact same one. Same color, same shoulder strap, same nasal cannula dangling like a sad, medical spaghetti noodle. He slid it over his shoulder and walked off like a man who had somewhere to be… which, in my world, was already impressive.

Naturally, my curiosity woke up and stretched like a cat. It’s rare—borderline mythical—for me to see someone around my age using oxygen, especially someone who didn’t fit the stereotypical image people have in their heads. He wasn’t elderly. He wasn’t visibly struggling. He wasn’t limping, coughing, huffing, puffing, or carrying an organ in a cooler. He just looked… normal. Slim. Healthy, even. Which is exactly the kind of visual contradiction I’ve trained my whole life to perfect.

Inside the store, he kept popping up wherever I went, like a polite oxygen-powered shadow. Meanwhile I kept doing that casual-looking-but-actually-investigative side-eye thing, wondering what lung betrayal he was dealing with. Sarcoidosis? Pulmonary fibrosis? Long-forgotten gym class injury? Bad luck? Unicorn lungs? I had questions. So many questions. But I also know too well the way people look at you when you’re wearing a cannula. The curiosity. The pity. The unspoken Are you okay? The very spoken My cousin had that. I didn’t want to become that person for him.

Still, the energy of the whole thing got under my skin in a way I couldn’t shake. I use oxygen for exercise and bad days, not 24/7. Seeing someone my age walking around the store wearing the same device felt like the world had momentarily glitched and produced my medical doppelgänger. Before I knew it, the whole situation had turned into this tiny personal mystery I suddenly needed to solve.

I checked out, loaded my bags into my car, and spotted him heading back to his. Before my introverted brain could punch the brakes, I realized this might be one of those rare moments when it would actually feel good to talk to someone who understood the weight—literally and figuratively—of carrying your lungs around in a bag.

So I did something bold. Wild. Uncharacteristic. I approached a stranger.

I walked up, gave him a friendly little nod, and said, “Hi. How do you like your Helios system? I’ve got the same one.” Smooth. Casual. Two oxygen guys bonding over our matching respiratory accessories. What could go wrong?

He smiled warmly, nodded politely, and replied:

“Sarry, frum Russia. No speak eenghlish.”

And that… was that.

Mystery unsolved. Curiosity unfulfilled. Universe laughing somewhere in the background.

I smiled, nodded back like that explained everything, and returned to my car, feeling like the world’s most medically equipped ghost. Two men. Two oxygen tanks. Zero shared language. Zero answers. Just a brief intersection of lives in a parking lot, framed by the quiet hum of air neither of us could breathe properly without help.

Even now, when I think back on that moment, it feels like the perfect snapshot of living with chronic illness. We move around in the same spaces as everyone else, carrying machines and stories and scars, always wondering who else is navigating the same unspoken battles. Sometimes we find them. Sometimes we even try to reach out. And sometimes they smile kindly, say “No speak English,” and the universe gently reminds us to stay in our lane.

Still, I’m glad I approached him. It was a tiny act of courage for the version of me who once hated being seen in public with oxygen at all. Maybe that’s the real point of the memory—not the stranger, not the mystery, not the equipment—but the quiet little shift in me. The moment I realized I wasn’t alone, even if I didn’t get the conversation I hoped for.

If you’ve ever had your own awkward chronic-illness encounter—or if this stirred up a memory—share it in the comments. And if you want more stories like this, hit subscribe so we can keep navigating this wild, breathless life together.