I remember running track in high school.
I could hold my own in the 100 meters, at least against most Iowa boys. In a pinch, I could run the 400—like if Mitch Miller was sick or something. But the 200 meter dash, that was my race. I liked to be slotted in the eighth lane. People don't expect much from you out there. The curve is kinder, and because of the stagger you’re already in the lead. When that gun goes off, the wind’s at my back and I’m wide open. Running well, I don't see another soul until I hit the tape.
But today I’ve lost about a third of my lung function. I don’t require oxygen or anything, but I’ve long since given up sprinting to catch the tram. My pulmonologist, frustrated by my incongruous test results, has taken a wait-and-see approach to the pressure in my chest and dyspnea. But I feel that weight with each breath.
I try not to focus on it, I try not to imagine that I may never feel better.
So, at the suggestion of a well-meaning friend, I downloaded Headspace. Meditation might help? Sit calmly. Close your eyes. Empty your mind. And focus on the breath.
Thanks Andy. Not funny.
