"The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity."
- Amelia Earhart
Yesterday I found myself picking through towering cumulus, 10,000 feet above the piney woods of south Georgia, pondering my constant shortness of breath lately, and a disconcerting tightness across the chest that seems to come and go. What if I had a heart attack right there, sitting at the controls of the mighty Columbia? The damned autopilot would keep me flying along on a 210 degree heading at 10,000 feet until I ran out of gas somewhere between Panama City and the Yucatan Peninsula. No one would know what happened, but I reckon everyone would know deep down. A person can't live like I've lived the last couple years, not at this age, and expect the end not to be best described by the words "sudden" and "massive".
The feeling was with me throughout my lovely reunion with Peg in Roanoke this past weekend. Did you know that at one time Roanoke, Virginia was the Dr. Pepper capital of the world? Me either. But the artifacts are right there in plain view.
The flight up from Perry on Saturday afternoon lasted only a couple hours, so I had lots of time to kill before Peg arrived in the roadster. I walked down to their equivalent of Market Street in Corning, found an outdoor table at a microbrewery, and downed a couple lagers while I worked on an appellate brief due on Monday. A couple black folks about my age brought out a boombox in their version of Centerway Square in Corning, and the early 70s Motown had even passers-by dancing.
And the place is in a spectacularly beautiful spot, nestled among hills to the east and the Shenandoah to the west. Here's the view out our hotel window.
Okay, not the best view, but you get the idea.
The hotel itself, the Liberty Trust, is a grand old bank building constructed in 1908 and reimagined as a hotel. The nice old lady who owns the place was beaming as we expressed admiration and awe at the fine granite lobby and vault. They've only been open since March 22nd.
But my guess is they won't last long, unfortunately. At supper we noticed a certain mean edge to the citizenry, with over-the-top tattoos and a demographic that seemed a jaunty mix of Proud Boys and gangster rappers. Then back at the hotel when we tried to go to sleep the hip hop night club next door roared all night, until the denizens flowed out onto the street at 3 a.m. howling "N" bombs and the misogynistic slang of their crowd. We'd noticed the innkeepers placed earplugs on the nightstand. Now we knew why.
Roanoke is in a beautiful spot like Corning, has a vibrant old downtown like Corning, but it's no Corning. The residents matter.
And those two delicious lagers? By four I was doing my best imitation of someone dying of celiac disease. How stupid of me.
So that's where I found myself when this pseudo heart issue presented in the air yesterday afternoon. But unlike every other time I've felt like hell, which is actually most of the time these days, I decided my only hope lies in creating an inventory and checklist of behaviors that might help or contribute to my physical decline. So when I got to the office, I sat down and created one.
I figured a holistic approach might help not only with the physical decline, but also my mental and spiritual unease. We'll see what happens.
And I already have some data points the next morning, today, the first day of the "plan".
My blood pressure is 158 over 94, pretty much smack in the middle of where it's been bouncing around for weeks now. No wonder I can hear my pulse in my ears most of the time. It was 140-something over 80-something before the pandemic.
I weighed myself this morning--188 pounds. I was 181 when we left for Wyldswood in March of 2020. Of course weight doesn't tell the whole story, insofar as some of that poundage has moved from shoulders and chest down to somewhere closer to the middle. But seven pounds is manageable, and I might even work my way down to 175, where I spent most of my adult life before the hurricane trashed my workout regimen.
And I was out of bed at five this morning, after sleeping eight hours on the dot, and in the gym for a weight circuit that entailed lots of huffing and puffing and light-headedness. It's a start.
I had one cup of coffee on my way to the gym. The urge for more Joe always leaves me if I work out in the morning, so that's all I've had.
Resuming an old practice from my clergy days, I then sat on the patio looking out over the bay with my tablet and Book of Common Prayer, and went through the personal devotional on page 137 and today's lectionary readings. Did I feel anything? Not really, but that's not the point. I did it. And I'll do it again tomorrow.
In sum, so far so good. But the first day is always the easiest, full of often false promises to self to do better. But the goal here will hopefully keep me in the process--I'm not getting any younger, and like a tired old car or airplane this old frame isn't going to last if I keep treating it like I'm 25.
And I want to be there for P, to keep living this life we've created together.
Which means there's lots more to do in my life that goes beyond just taking care of body and brain, but it's a start.
Depositions in seven minutes. Here we go.
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