After Calene got sick, my doctor was just one of many people — Callie included — who reminded me to take care of myself. It's the old adage about putting on the oxygen mask before you put one on someone else. I listened, though halfheartedly. My exercise habits remained solid, a mixture of running, lifting, hiking, and pelotons.
But I also have a job that requires me to sit for many hours at a time. It's easy to suggest that I get up and take a break every hour, but you lose the creative spell. When that goes, it's hard to get back. So, in those months when I wrote (there were two six-month periods with the cancer that I didn't have the will to so much as summon a sentence), it was for five to six hours at a time.
I'm also a fan of comfort eating and ice-cold IPA. Not wine, not spirits; mega-calorie IPA. We've had a love affair since I drank my first Arrogant Bastard. Put it all together, and I gained 15 pounds after my knee surgery, another 10 during Covid, and 20 more since Callie's diagnosis. Two to three pounds a year doesn't sound like much but it adds up over time. As a runner and a running coach, the transformation from marathoner to linebacker made me uncomfortable — though, obviously, not uncomfortable enough to do something about it. My heart is strong, my resting heart rate is low, my VO2 max is awesome.
But death has a way of getting your attention. It brings forth an inescapable honesty and candor. Calene was very direct. She often took me to task for my diplomacy, wishing I would cut the crap and say what was on my mind. Without intending to, that has become my MO. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I just don't have the time or energy these days to do anything else. A reader wrote to me this week and asked if I would change the appraisal of Trump in the final pages of Confronting the Presidents. I had written that he was one of the worst five presidents in history (which shocked my co-author, who had no idea I felt this way). I wrote back to the reader, saying that I would definitely change my appraisal: Trump isn't bottom five, he's the worst. I rejoiced at the blue tidal wave.
My doctor, Steven Cullen, was equally candid with me. He told me I was likely to have a heart attack or stroke within the next ten years if I don't lose weight. Steve told me that a year ago. I didn't listen, too caught up in being a caregiver to take care of myself. What was life, anyway, without my queen?
But now, eight months into my no-puppies promise (no puppies, no tattoos, no girlfriends until a year after Calene's passing), I am making the choice to live. So I'm paying attention. I'm down 17 pounds since the start of cross country season. My goal is to lose everything I added after my knee surgery.
If I'm honest, I don't need another puppy, a tattoo (I was thinking of a sunflower, her favorite flower, but my oldest son is getting one of those. My body will remain ink free), and I wrote recently how awkward even the thought of a girlfriend is right now. I just need to lose weight.
Running another marathon will be much, much easier.