The Downside of Health

I get a little nervous every time my heart skips a beat.

When I’m just sitting at my desk and my heart starts acting wonky like it did the other day, I start thinking about the worst case scenario.

What if my heart is messed up again? What if the fix was only temporary and not effective anymore?

If I knew that I was going to be sick again in a year or two I would live a bit differently.

I would go to Ireland this summer to see where my grandpa’s family came from. Then I would fly over to France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, and other cool countries in the area.

I would push myself harder on the treadmill, get to a run faster.

I would get a tattoo of a heart somewhere on my body. Maybe I should do that one anyway.

If I thought my sickness would kill me, I would quit my job to spend every day with my daughter, and my husband would hear cheesy love proclamations twice a day. Why can’t I do that now?

Knowing how hard it was to think when my heart was sick, I would get off my ass and re-write my second novel. I shouldn’t need the fear of losing my wits to do that. But I would be less afraid of looking like an idiot, and more afraid of losing my chance.

Here’s the thing: I could get sick again. It might not even be my heart next time. In fact, I will get sick eventually and die. But I’m feeling a little complacent these days. I’ve lost the edge that came with finally being healthy. Health is expected now, just two years after maybe never being healthy again.

Work It Out

Exercise seemed impossible when I was sick.

My simple stationary bike taunted me every night after work. Eight hours of sitting at a desk left me too exhausted to cook dinner and do the dishes, but I was supposed to find enough energy to work out. Whenever I’d walk by the bike to sit on the couch, I would hear my doctor’s voice.

You should get thirty minutes of exercise a day. At the very least.

I felt guilty when I didn’t get on the bike; like I wasn’t doing everything I could to get well. So, more often than not, I’d peddle as hard and fast as I could for as long as I could stand it. I usually lasted ten minutes at the lowest tension.

My legs were always heavy as hell about half way through my pathetic attempts at cardio. And by the end, I was winded and red-faced and when I walked to the couch to rest, it felt like industrial mop buckets filled with water were strapped to my feet.

There were nights I resisted the pointless exercise. By the end of the week, when my fatigue had glazed over me and I was more zombie than human, I looked at the bike, heard the voice and replied, fuck it. It can wait. Rest is more important right now.

Working out was torture. Now that I’m well, I look forward to working up a sweat on my treadmill. Not because I’m a fitness freak, but because I can. I feel exhilarated after a forty-five minute stride. It’s amazing.

I have a small, plastic, anatomically correct heart hanging from my treadmill to remind me why I walk. I’m working up to a full on run. I want to put as much distance between the sick me and the well me as possible. I want to run while I can.