I’m like a shark: I need to keep moving to stay alive. In my case, walking, not swimming
I walk every morning, weather permitting. At home I’ve got half-a-dozen routes, ranging in distance from two miles to the length of a 5K run, all scenic, including ocean vistas, wealthy neighborhoods, charming village streets. I love to walk; it’s my thinking, planning time. But I don’t do it just for fun. If I stopped, I’d probably die.
You see, I have high blood pressure. And high cholesterol. You wouldn’t think this if you saw me, as I’m lean and fit. But I’m hard-wired for these maladies, and they shape and define my daily life.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I know I’m lucky. I’ve lived to be 65. A ripe old age a century ago. Many people don’t, including some of my friends. Other people I know have had their first heart attacks, stents inserted in clogged arteries, open-heart surgery, cancer diagnoses, dementia.
As I’ve entered my golden years I haven’t mellowed much. In fact, I’ve gotten crankier, less understanding, more impatient. Road rage? Hell, I have grocery store rage! Why is everyone in my way? Why is the express line taking so long? Why did that jerk park so close to me?
Maybe all this cussedness stems from the recognition of my mortality. Most of us don’t think about dying. In fact, we deny the possibility of it. We know, intellectually, that at some point we’ll cease to exist, but emotionally we have a hard time accepting it. We ignore it, don’t think about it. Until we’re forced to.
During my recent “snowbirding” time in Florida, I had what medical professionals call a “hypertension event.” After working out at a local gym, I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner. There was a blood pressure monitor near the pharmacy, so I tested myself. My BP was 189/123 (normal is 120/80). The screen alert suggested I seek medical attention. Immediately. Fortunately, things settled down a few hours later. But I got the message: You were knockin’ on death’s door, dude.
In the comic Western novel “Little Big Man,” the Indian sage Old Lodge Skins likes to say, “Today is a good day to die.” Few people think there is a good day to die, but if I had to choose the circumstances, here’s what I wish for:
A perfect Maine fall day. Sun on my face, a light breeze, the sky cerulean. I’m walking along a path that looks down on the ocean, waves breaking on the rocky shore. The sumac are a stunning red. The first sign is shortness of breath. I stop, lean against a maple tree. Then a tightness in my chest. I must sit down. I look up. The last thing I see is golden sunlight filtering through fluttering orange leaves set against a dark blue sky.
A pretty good day to die after all.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
