We sat around a little table in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen in a suburb of Minneapolis, MN. Like every morning before, her neighbor, Phil, stopped by for a cup of coffee. He walked in with his eight-pound cylinder of oxygen in tow. His silver spoon clinked the edges of his glass as he stirred his coffee. At 86-years-young, he proudly maintained a smirky sense of humor and teased us for adding three spoonfuls of sugar to our coffee. That was over 18 months ago now. It seems like life was...