sunset

For about the past five years, it's occurred to me regularly that two things: my advancing age and my neglect of what people call "taking care of yourself" were going to bring about the end of days before I'm ready for them. My dad, only seventeen years my senior, proclaims to be "ready to go," but I am not. Not at all.

What's happened to me isn't unique. I developed painful arthritis in both knees after a lifetime of being physically active. I eventually had both of them replaced in 2020, but I never bounced back from it. The surgeries coincided with a prolonged bout of depression, one of may I've dealt with over the past 40 years. Complicating that even further, I came down with Guillain–Barré syndrome. By the time I recovered, I'd gained weight and had almost no endurance capacity. Walking a mile was about as much as I could do.

Recently, the slightest bit of physical exertion has been leaving me winded. I have been having real problems with fatigue. Last week my feet and lower legs started to swell in a way that hasn't ever happened before. I made a doctor's appointment with some difficulty because it's America in the 21st century. I didn't really want to think too much about what I might hear, but I was prepared for anything. After prescribing some medication and cautioning me against excessive sodium consumption, the doctor quickly diagnosed me with congestive heart failure and referred me to a cardiologist, which is where this story pauses.

I'm not the type of person who obsesses about their health. I'm not going to WebMD to read everything they have on my condition. I'm just going to wait on the cardiologist to tell me what I need to know. I'm shaken up a bit. I just turned 60 in February and though I'd have more time before this kind of stuff started happening. I take some comfort in knowing that my father-in-law was diagnosed with the same thing 20 years ago. My dad has had three heart attacks. They started in his 40s and he took another 15 years to even quit smoking. Hopefully, I'll have that kind of luck.

I'm already grateful for each day. As a recovering alcoholic with 16 years of sobriety, I've already gotten one second lease on life, one that I have taken full advantage of. I count my blessings every day and draw a lot of strength from a loving family and a fulfilling life that allows me to pursue the things that interest me. While this news has knocked me a bit of a loop, I don't see myself falling into a self-pity trap. It is what it is. I would rather not spend time moping when I can be doing something that brings me joy.

Hopefully, whatever treatment plan I get will alleviate the symptoms I've had and give me more energy. I have the motivation to do stuff, just not the capacity I'd like. I'm lucky to have Wonder Woman who is supportive and loving and not full of "I told you so's". There are plenty of people worse off than me. I'm keeping that in mind.

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