I’m dictating today, so blame the typos on Siri.
I know it’s a little early for annual retrospectives, but I have high hopes: with a stout knock on wood, I believe this week will represent the last great medical adventure of 2025 for me. I am having cataracts removed from my eyes on Monday and Tuesday. I am looking forward to being able to see your lovely faces, almost as much as I am dreading the first look in my bathroom mirror.
This procedure was originally scheduled for late summer, but on the day it was to begin. I was in the emergency room and then admitted to Saint Joseph Hospital, where doctors scanned and scoped and poked and hypothesized, seeking possible reasons for my fainting and falling down. On the morningI called From my hospital bedto cancel my eye surgery, The theory was that I may or may not have had a stroke. So that qualified as unacceptable excuse for missing my appointment.
The moment was reminiscent of a winter morning earlier in the year when, having completed the joyful process of preparing for a colonoscopy, it was discovered that my a-fib had returned. A clever doctor resolved that condition with an electric nudge, but the colon remains unscoped and is likely to stay that way until I start year’s deductible.
But back to Saint Joseph’s infirmary… After three days in the hospital, the specialists concluded that I was fainting and falling down because I kept fainting while standing up. At least that’s how I understood their interpretation. We still are unsure what was going on, but Dr Carrie, my own cardiologist dialed my blood pressure medication‘s way back, and I haven’t had another episode since.
My theory is that these fainting’s were brought about as a result of some pretty exciting weight loss. I managed this year. Using a program called HMR, I have dropped about 70 pounds since March. When I want to get overly excited about that, I remind myself that this is my third time on the program, and my third time losing at least that much weight. My laser focus this year has been on understanding and changing the mental/emotional habits that lead me to eat in a way that disrespects my own body and that of the 80-year-old man I hope to be. Navigating my latest medical misadventure has encouraged me to hope that I have been at least a little successful.
Navigating my latest medical misadventure has encouraged me to hope that I have been at least a little successful.
Part of my weight loss program is daily physical activity. On September 4 at about 10 PM I was reviewing my daily journal and realize that I had skipped my scheduled 3 mile run for the day. In a burst of enthusiasm and in hopes of persuading myself that I actually had some Personal discipline, I laced up my running shoes and hit the pavement. At about 2 1/2 miles I was feeling fantastic. I was running fast, taking my prescribed, walk breaks, and feeling mentally relaxed and centered. At some point, I have a shadowy memory of hitting a curb, a little bit funny, but other than that, there was nothing wrong with my workout. Sometime after that missed step, I started to feel a little twinge in the back of my left ankle. A younger stupider version of me would have sucked it up and run on, but I, being old and wise, decided to cut off my run and walk the last half mile home. Not long after that, I felt a funny sort of snap under my left heel as if I had stepped on a nut that resisted and then broke. I looked behind me to see if a piece of concrete had cracked under me, but the turning motion sent a stab of pain up and down the back of my leg. I knew something really stupid had happened. The half mile limp home was mostly a debate with myself about whether or not I was going to the ER. I got to the house, strapped on an ice pack, and elevated my foot, hoping for the best. Half an hour later when I stood up to use the bathroom. The debate was over
I had a cane in the corner that I had been using during my fainting and falling period. I grabbed it and hobbled out to the car. The handsome young ER doctor on duty took one look at my ankle and murmered “oh man…“ He felt certain I had torn my Achilles tendon, And booked an appointment with an orthopedist the next day. And gave me a big gray boot called an air cast. And a pair of crutches, whose use I never really mastered.
And so began the long journey toward healing. Orthopedist number one didn’t like what he saw in the MRI and referred me to orthopedist number two who he described as “our Achilles guy.“ The Achilles guy turned out to be Dr. Ben Schneider, who Possesses the perfect combination of candor and compassion. I liked him right away, even when he told me it was likely to be six months before I ran again. We looked at the MRI together, and it resembled nothing So much as the two frayed ends of a rope that had been pulled apart by too heavy a load. I remain both impressed and haunted by the image.Soon after, I was on the table, and Dr. S was sewing me back together.
Two weeks of almost complete mobility. Reading and dozing in my rocking chair and occasionally scooting into a wheelchair to roll to the bathroom or the refrigerator.
Four weeks of non-weight-bearing activity. Learning to Navigate the world in a wheelchair and resolving to become an advocate for people who spent their days, wrestling curbs, stoops, self closing doors, public bathrooms, chin high countertops and 1000 daily in dignities that a better world would not ask them to face. The day, Dr. S told me I could begin bearing weight on my boot, felt like he had given me a pair of wings. I folded up the wheelchair one last time, drove to the YMCA, and returned it to the closet from once it had come.It’s there waiting for the next person who needs it.
Today I am four weeks into the six week physical therapy part of the protocol. My therapist is a funny, clever, startlingly, tall young man who moved to Kentucky from Utah and indulgences my impatience and often inappropriate to humor. We have been slowly stripping away the supports For the left foot. I have fewer and fewer little wedges under my heel, and more and more exercises to improve the strength and flexibility around the joint. Progress seems to be right on schedule, but not nearly as fast as I want it to be.My goal is to be up on the treadmill by January 16: Five months After my surgery. I’ve been telling people I intend to be running by Groundhog Day and that remains my goal. I’ll let you know if I see my shadow on the road.
So this week, it’s to be eye surgery. Lots of group and drops and sunglasses and rest. I intend to be back at work on Black Friday, barring instructions to the contrary from my surgeon. I’ve become a very compliant patient over the past few months.
After that, it will Running the last lap of my rehab Race, and setting a goal for 2026. I’ve got my eye on the bluegrass 10,000 in July and the Ironhorse half marathon in October. Then maybe a full marathon in 2027. I’m sure there’s great wisdom in keeping such plans to one’s self, but wisdom is one of the benefits of aging that I’m still waiting to encounter.
I have high hopes for the coming year for myself, for my friends, and for our strangely troubled and beautiful world. I’m a sentimental type, so I’m sure there will be more reflective posts before the new year, but for now I have much to be thankful for And hope your cup overflows too. Happy Thanksgiving, dear reader. we ain’t dead yet
Catch a blessing!
Pennsy
