Sometime in the Spring of 2019

Miss Nita might actually hate being here more than I do.    She’s 86 or 87 or 88.  She’s not entirely sure. She’s a widow.  She complains about her doctor and her over-protective daughters.  She always looks elegant and put together. I think her caregiver gets her ready.  She would rather be home drinking coffee and watching TV.  Me too.

Alejandro is on the stationary bike next to mine.  We trade war stories. He in Spanish; me in English. He has already had his transplant.  I can see the top of his scar above his shirt collar. He only has a few more weeks left and the relief is obvious.  I just started.

A couple of the men have on work shirts, their names embroidered above the breast pocket.   Some are overweight, some are not. Some women, but mostly men. There is not much talking.  At least since Virgil left. He mostly talked about hamburgers. He made us all laugh.

It’s just another day at cardiac rehab.  It’s not that much different from the gym, except it’s at the hospital and we are all hooked up to EKG’s.  Cori, the physical therapist, barks out orders, while Whitney, the nurse, monitors our heart rhythms on a screen. One man, the youngest and healthiest looking of us all, went to the ER the other day with a funky rhythm. He’s OK now.

Heart disease does not discriminate.   We are different people, one disease, pedaling to nowhere because our doctors told us to, whether we like it or not. And I don’t.