MVR
I’ve been a pretty healthy guy for most of my life. Perhaps I didn’t deserve to be; I was a smoker for many years, and a drinker for even longer. But I’ve never had any significant health problems, and I stay pretty active. My parts are all original.
I was a serious marathon runner in my forties (doing two or three a year, and keeping them under three hours on a good day), and a serious CrossFitter in my fifties (with a level 2 trainer certification, I helped to pilot one of the first CrossFit inspired high school physical education programs). I get regular check ups, and jovial Dr. Mike always comments on how I’m in much better shape than he is. Energy-wise, I hit a little slump a couple of years ago, and Mike ordered every test he could think of to explain it. But the results were all normal, and Mike proclaimed me to be a ridiculously healthy (and possibly occasionally overly stressed-out) sixty year old.
My check-up last October was different. Dr. Mike, stethoscope in hand, became uncharacteristically somber. He had me sit and stand and lie in various positions as he listened to my heart. He heard a murmur. “I’m really sorry,” he said.
One echo-cardiogram later, I was diagnosed with moderate Mitral Valve Regurgitation. My heart is leaking oil, or more technically, my heart is throwing up blood. Blood flows through your open mitral valve into the left ventricle. Then the mitral valve closes, so the ventricle can squirt blood into your aorta and out to your body, for activities like overhead squats, sprinting, burpees, and not dying. In my case some of the blood squirts back the wrong way, making the whole system less efficient, and making me wonder if my next heartbeat could be my last.
When talking with people about this condition, on more than one occasion my conversation partner has said, “Oh, my dog has that!” Well, fuck your dog, I don’t give a shit about your dog. If I died today, I would never see a grandchild, or cash a retirement check, or learn what the hell Luke Skywalker is doing in Ireland, or know if the Giants eventually break out of this epic collective hitting slump. If your dog dies from a heart ailment, that would be sad. My unfulfilled dreams would be tragic.
Now that I think about it, when I’d go up the stairs to the bedroom, it took me a few seconds to catch my breath again. After lifting heavy weights, I would often feel a little light headed right after setting the weights down. Last summer, in a friendly competition, I rowed 500 meters “for time,” and actually lost consciousness for a couple of seconds after. Good thing it was a rowing machine, and not a boat in the water. One of my favorite treadmill workouts involved running up a high incline at high speed for 30 seconds, then hopping off for 30 seconds, and repeating a dozen times or so. I always felt great while I was “on,” but during the “off” periods my field of vision would narrow, and my head would get wonky. I viewed these phenomena as a badge of honor, a sign of my ability to “give it all I’ve got,” to be able to push my personal envelope beyond the limits of mere mortals. And now I know, my heart was just throwing up blood.
Now that I’m a walker, I’m rarely out of breath. With a heavy pack on a steep hill, sure. But I can go twenty miles, breathing through my nose, imagining how good my next meal is going to taste, and entirely forgetting that my heart is damaged goods. It feels right. If I’m stressed out from work, I feel better after walking. If I have a headache from not getting enough sleep, walking usually makes the headache go away. If I’m wrestling with a problem, or a challenge, walking gives me time for reflection, and seems to grease the creative process. Best of all, no matter how far I walk, my legs can recover sufficiently so that I can go again the next day. All of that to say, walking seems to make my heart happy.