When someone I don't know asks, "How are you?" I respond with the standard small-talk answer: "Fine."
When someone I know well asks the same question, the most succinct honest response is, "Fragile."
I definitely have something amiss with my heart. Some tests have been done, and there are more to come. Some meds have been prescribed, and there almost certainly will be more.
After my woozy Wednesday, I am feeling, for the most part, OK -- well enough to do what I need to do in a job that I love and hate in equal measure. But as I was listening to a gubernatorial candidate speak last night, and searching for good photo angles, I worried that I would not make it through this story assignment without keeling over and feeling the room spin around me. (I did.)
And today I'm going to Pardeeville, a community I love, for an event I love -- and I'm hoping the volunteer EMT service is fully staffed today, but hoping even more that I won't need them. It's the 51st annual Watermelon Festival. Watermelon is good for the heart -- isn't it?
That's what it means to "feel fragile."
I hate it.
I hate, too, that I am, by my doctor's orders, barred from the water for the time being. No more swimming, she said, until we figure out why my heart stopped for four seconds on Wednesday, and are more-or-less sure it won't happen again. If it does, I could drown, even if I'm standing in the therapy pool.
I can exercise on land, however -- for as long as I typically do (about an hour per session, usually), but at less intensity. No more interval training on the stationary bike.
I'm fragile.
I'm scared.
When I undertook this effort to reclaim my health and fitness, I had a quiet but persistent inkling that something else was waiting in the wings to sabotage my body. Now that "something else" has shown itself.
And yet, understand this: I'm not the least bit sorry I changed my eating habits, lost the equivalent of about 16 bowling balls, rediscovered the joy of being in the water, amped up my activity, learned to walk again. I still love the Dans and Katie for their role -- and despite their protestations, it was a significant role -- in my transformation. (I've told Katie what's going on, in explaining why I'm not renewing my pool membership just yet.)
I know, too, that the condition I have is something a lot of people live with, including my brother. Some of them live with it for a long time.
So I'm going to do the best I can, take it one day at a time, listen to my doctors and listen to my body.
And I'll acknowledge, over and over again, that all of us are a lot more fragile than we'd like to admit.
When someone I know well asks the same question, the most succinct honest response is, "Fragile."
I definitely have something amiss with my heart. Some tests have been done, and there are more to come. Some meds have been prescribed, and there almost certainly will be more.
After my woozy Wednesday, I am feeling, for the most part, OK -- well enough to do what I need to do in a job that I love and hate in equal measure. But as I was listening to a gubernatorial candidate speak last night, and searching for good photo angles, I worried that I would not make it through this story assignment without keeling over and feeling the room spin around me. (I did.)
And today I'm going to Pardeeville, a community I love, for an event I love -- and I'm hoping the volunteer EMT service is fully staffed today, but hoping even more that I won't need them. It's the 51st annual Watermelon Festival. Watermelon is good for the heart -- isn't it?
That's what it means to "feel fragile."
I hate, too, that I am, by my doctor's orders, barred from the water for the time being. No more swimming, she said, until we figure out why my heart stopped for four seconds on Wednesday, and are more-or-less sure it won't happen again. If it does, I could drown, even if I'm standing in the therapy pool.
I can exercise on land, however -- for as long as I typically do (about an hour per session, usually), but at less intensity. No more interval training on the stationary bike.
I'm fragile.
I'm scared.
When I undertook this effort to reclaim my health and fitness, I had a quiet but persistent inkling that something else was waiting in the wings to sabotage my body. Now that "something else" has shown itself.
And yet, understand this: I'm not the least bit sorry I changed my eating habits, lost the equivalent of about 16 bowling balls, rediscovered the joy of being in the water, amped up my activity, learned to walk again. I still love the Dans and Katie for their role -- and despite their protestations, it was a significant role -- in my transformation. (I've told Katie what's going on, in explaining why I'm not renewing my pool membership just yet.)
I know, too, that the condition I have is something a lot of people live with, including my brother. Some of them live with it for a long time.
So I'm going to do the best I can, take it one day at a time, listen to my doctors and listen to my body.
And I'll acknowledge, over and over again, that all of us are a lot more fragile than we'd like to admit.
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