Reality Check

So I joined a gym last week. The reasons for it were many:

~ I have heart disease;
~ I've put on more weight than comfortable or prudent; and,
~ My muscles no longer wanted to cooperate.

I got diagnosed with heart disease at 35. Initially, I cried. And then I became scared. Scared that I might die tomorrow. Although exercise was one of the recommended regiments that I had to follow, I did. Initially, I did. But every time my heart would start to beat fast and I’d begin to breathe heavy, I’d panic and stop. I was afraid of having a heart attack. Well, I continued to be afraid for many years. It did not matter that my own cardiologist said that this is what I needed to do and I could do it in the cardiac rehabilitation center where I was closely monitored. I was scared.

My life turned upside down and I began living life like I was on death's door instead of a still healthy 35 year old. I became overly concerned with how things might affect my heart and, basically, I stopped enjoying life. Yeah, I was a lot of fun to be around back then. Then, somewhere along the way I got tired of this. So, I did the next best thing: I continued with my life as if I had not been diagnosed. I didn't say I was smart.

So this is how I lived for many years. Then the 40’s came around and something new was added to the mix: reactive hypoglycemia. And, of course, the metabolism started slowing down and I began to incrementally put on the pounds. At first it was hardly noticeable because I had always been thin. Well, fast forward to present, I am now 30 lbs. overweight and feeling it. I never thought I’d gain weight; it was one of those things that I never expected to have to deal with, as genetically I am not predisposed.

So I joined a gym. Reality and common sense finally filtered in. I am at the cusp of 50 and feeling, for the first time since I got diagnosed, that I have some control over my life. I can no longer live ostrich-like. Time to get my head out of the ground and face the world.

Last week was my first week. I did some weight training and shockingly realized how very weak my muscles were – not only my core, but my legs and arms as well. That was a tremendous wake-up call. And we all know how important weight training is for the heart. I gasped for air and my muscles were trembling but I did it anyway. I have a lot of work to do. The trainer advices me not to become discouraged as she has seen many women stop because once their muscles begin to ache, they believe this to be a) too uncomfortable for them to deal with, or b) they become afraid. I inform her that neither is the case for me anymore; I’ve been there and done that already.

I also took a body sculpting class - cardio with light weights. It was a 45-minute class. Nearing the end, I dispensed with the 2 lb. weights (yes, a measly 2 lbs.) because my arms could no longer hold them. Pretty bad, huh? This tells me how much muscle I have to build up again. I was gasping for air (uncomfortable), sweating (felt good actually) and my face got beet red (but my face gets ruddy quickly anyway) by the end. The class kicked my ass and I did not give it 100%. Common sense tells me that I have to start slow, especially given the heart condition. And I did. And it still kicked my ass.

So I went to the gym three days. I was not happy because I wanted to do five, but on two days I could not move so I passed, giving my muscles time to repair.

The reality of the weakness of all of my muscles, especially the heart, has jolted my senses awake. I don't think I'll be visiting the la-la, such is life, let me sit and watch TV instead of exercising route again. Becoming 50 does that to you. You realize you no longer have youth and the privileges that come with it (like abusing your body without having to deal with real time consequences) on your side. Those consequences creep up on you years later. And at my age, it is a given that if I do not seriously get serious, I will find myself 10 years from now with a bucket full of health problems. As it is, my plate is already full. My goal now is to get my health back, retain control of my life again, and begin to feel good once again.

This is Week 2: I’m psyched.

And if you want to know where you stand in terms of knowledge about preventing heart disease, take the following quiz at Heart Prevention Quiz. I scored 8 out of 10. Not bad.

The Physical Heart

Welcome to The Physical Heart - an on-line journal towards the road back to better health but mostly a place where articles relating to the tender loving care of our hearts will be posted. I hope in time this will become an interactive blog where comments can be left on the experiences you or a loved one has had with heart disease; what's worked or hasn't worked. A support group amongst ourselves where we can discuss our challenges and begin to learn of ourselves and of each other as persons living with heart disease.

For this initial post, I will give you a bit of background about my own personal experience. About 15 years ago I was diagnosed with a rare heart disorder. The word normal suddenly became important in my life. A lifetime of limitations of not being able to do normal things that many my age could easily do without getting tired was no longer due to me being out of shape, but because my heart inabled me to do so. This diagnosis proved to be both a relief - because I thought I was going insane when no doctor believed that I indeed felt tired and it was not due to laziness or being out of shape - but at the same time I felt as if a death sentence had been handed down. Heart disease. Wow. I cried for days. I was so young and this was something one got late in life, or so I thought.

When the doctor gave me the news, I heard but refused to absorb the severity of it and went into denial. It was monumental and my mind could not grasp it. I was given the knowledge that explained the issues I had been complaining of all along, something I should have been grateful for, yet I became unhappy and angry and proceeded to live my life under false pretenses. For years I burned the candles at both ends placing undue physical demand on the heart that was neither necessary nor prudent. But then somewhere around my mid-40s the body started to reject my emotional and physical rejections. In addition, my sugar levels, (because I am a reactive hypoglycemic as well) were also running amok.

So at one of my annual visits I explained to my doctor that I was feeling unwell – I was lethargic, had gained 25 pounds for various reasons, was not sleeping well, and seemed to be depressive. I was constantly tired and short-winded. Of course, he told me what I already knew: that my current state was nothing more than pure negligence of my health on my part. But like someone with an addiction that does things that seem irrational to others, I did the same with my health.

He gave me six months to prepare for a stress test that I had been avoiding for years. I knew I would not do well simply because climbing a flight of stairs would leave me absolutely breathless, gasping for air. I went home scared with the promise that this time I would change my ways (not the first time) and proceeded to begin an exercise program. Of course, I began to feel better immediately as the endorphins kicked in and kicked out that depressive lethargic mood. In the beginning it was difficult, but each week became easier and easier until I was able to run one complete lap without stopping. This was tremendous progress for me. I looked forward to coming home each day from work and getting on that treadmill and seeing my daily progression. As a person who needs to visually see progress, I created a database that tracked the miles walked each day, the calories/fat calories burned, to what level I used the incline on the treadmill, and any comments I had – was it a good day where I sweated and felt strong or was it a bad day where I felt too weak to even walk a mile. And in my case, whether I am able to go the distance or not is defined and ruled by diet because of the hypoglycemia. And I faithfully stuck to my routine, noting down my progression each day and analyzing the areas where I went wrong. It turned out to be a great system for me.

When I finally took the stress test, the result was dishearting. I did all right. I did not do as well as both the doctor and I had expected. I could not go the distance because the heart simply would not allow. I was upset because I had worked so hard. But my doctor was supportive and informed me that this was good considering that it had just been six months and the deteriorated state in which I had begun. If I continued to exercise at least four days a week for 45 minutes, I would do better next time. The heart would become stronger as time went by.

Well, I didn't hear that. What I felt was the disappointment and validation that I, again, was not normal and could not get through a test that someone my age or older could do ten times better. I succumbed to that melancholia that often took hold and stopped exercising. Not the smartest thing to do but I just did not want to be reminded of the things that I could not do. I wanted normal again, however that defined itself to me, and completely cognizant yet shamefully negligent of the detriment that would ensue.

But a part of me knew I was doing wrong, confirmed by the fact that my husband and daughter would never let me forget it. Neither myself nor they could fathom what was wrong with me. I certainly didn’t have the answer. I’m intelligent and know what I have to do, yet I struggled to stay consistent and loyal to the diet and exercise program that I’m supposed to follow. And for me, these two things are not options; they are life-giving as much as food and water is.

And, last week, after having had too much ice cream that caused my sugars to plummet badly, I again asked the same question: what is wrong with me? I cannot eat anything sweet in the amount I eat it like others who are not hypoglycemic; I cannot push my body to physical or stressful exertion because it will take its toll. And I began to seriously analyze my behaviors and, through exploratory writing, finally the bulb went on: I refused to accept the knowledge that I am not normal. I wanted to be just like everyone else.

I digested this new, yet truthful piece of information. Then I asked, what is normal? There is no set definition for which one gauges it against. Everyone holds some sort of loss/challenge in their lives either in the physical or emotional realm. And what we tend to do when faced with a weakness is to compare ourselves against others who are healthier (whatever our definition of healthy is) and put focus on those very things that we lack, reaffirming our belief that we are weaker and thus feel less than. At least I did and still sometimes do. I am reminded of it each day when I find I cannot do certain things. Yet this should not be where I lay my focus. I need to remind myself we all hold different challenges. I know of many whose challenges are greater than mine and humble me into shame whenever I complain. And I know of others whose challenges are less of a struggle, but is their grass greener? I don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no. But that is not my concern. My not-so-strong heart, my fluctuating sugars, this is my challenge. No more comparisons. Instead, I will continue to focus on how to make my weaknesses stronger and continue to internally shift my sporadic negative thinking into positive thoughts. If anything, heart disease and hypoglycemia have taught me some important life-learning lessons: how to have patience, how to relax, and how to eat better. And, more importantly, it has taught me to intuitively know my body. Now, I just have to listen, that's all.

And so, finally acknowledging that I am just like everyone else facing a challenge, I joined a gym to regain back the physical health of my heart: that which has so loyally given life without giving much pain despite my bouts of negligence and ambivalence. I have wasted 15 years struggling against the tide of what I deemed normal. The grief and anger over a weakened heart prevented me from knowing the truth: that I could still have a fulfilling life, just like everyone else....and, like everyone else, if I am negligent with this life, then a price will be a paid in loss of health at the end....in that respect, I am normal....in that respect, I am held accountable for that loss of health just like the next person.

And I end this with this bit of thought: in this life where others live with such sorrow and pain, what right do I have to complain or be angry about? It shames me. It truly does.