The End of an Era

It used to be that five times a week I would head to the gym and work out steadily for an hour or so.  After a few babies, I traded the gym for an awesome double-jogging stroller and coupled naptime with a long walk up and down Bear Hill Road.  It was a wonderful, quiet time of prayer and reflection:  I would give almost anything to be able to take another one of those walks.

Today we took a deposit from a guy who wants to buy our elliptical machine.  It's just been sitting, really, since Ash Wednesday 2008 when I collapsed and lost consciousness working out on the thing--apparently due to a dangerous arrhythmia that did not emerge until that day.  I tried it a few times last spring, but after having another minor episode, I knew I was finished with this marvel of cardiovascular exercise.  

The Arc Trainer was a splurge for us.  We inherited a bit of money and decided that instead of trying to get to the gym (or braving the New England elements in the winter with the kids in the stroller), we would invest in this machine.  I was delighted to have it.  Back in grad school, I remember when they first put it in our gym.  It was amazing to use.  Walks are great, but this thing was efficient:  it really gets your heart rate up in a hurry and makes you work.  

Turns out that's not such a good thing for me.  These days, doing a little Wii Fit yoga is the level of exertion I can tolerate.  I don't even like to go up stairs with any haste.  When I'm out walking, I stroll "with the kids," and I'm thankful I have them to cover for me.  I wouldn't want to walk any faster than I do.

Over these 35 years, I've had asthma, cancer, low blood calcium and now this.  It's turned my life upside down--though my doctors are so pleased that I am "coping and moving on."  Whatever that means.  Every little exertion and I stop to check my heart rate.  Where I used to relish a workout, now I dread it.  Nothing sustained is my new motto.  

I hate this affliction, and though it weighs heavily on me, I have moved on.  I am coping, I guess.  I've learned to deal with the noticing my heart rate all the time, slowing my pace, and pushing on while stretching, wishing I were done already.  That's the new, and I don't dwell on the old much.  It's like a dream, the time before--sometimes I actually dream of running (or swimming or biking or hiking).  I think heaven for me will be a giant, equipped gym and no heart-rate monitor.

It'll be nice to have the money and the space in my basement.  Honestly, the machine has only bad memories for me, and I don't like looking at it.  Still, it's a little piece of that old life I used to have, and one I miss terribly.  


And I'm counting it towards my Lenten 40 Bags cleanout.