Friday, March 29, 2002.
Number of times we've had sex during this pregnancy: SIX !!
Latest movie seen: Blade 2. Awesome! Better than the first!
Sweet thank you's to: June.
BETTER TREADS THAN MEDS
"I can do this," I thought as I strained various muscles from various angles wondering if I really could not do this.
I was in the middle of the staircase in our home leading to the basement.
Below, I had counted, were eight more steps until I could reach the safe basement floor. Above, was just about the heaviest thing I had ever attempted to not crush myself to bits with: a brand new exercise treadmill. I had haphazardly decided I could "slide" it down the basement steps all by myself. Oh, it would slide down the steps alright. All the way down to the basement floor until it wedged a mat made out of flesh and splintered bone previously known as "me" at the bottom of the staircase.
The top end of the treadmill wasn't even completely in the doorway yet, as it started to bulldoze its way slowly inch by inch down the stairs despite my best physical efforts.
Oh ... shit ... I said, as my feet started sliding backwards on the dusty steps....
What was I doing with one of those runner's treadmills in my house anyways? Well, I finally decided this week to get my blood drawn. Most importantly, my cholesterol.
I remember it being slightly high several years ago (total cholesterol 207). My dad died early, at age 47, of heart disease. He had several "heart attacks" actually, the first of which was before age 40. He used to see a cardiologist at the very hospital Empire I now work at. That cardiologist is dead now (just a coincidence I swear!).
Anyways, one of the biggest factors in heart disease is cholesterol. I've been putting off checking mine due to lack of time and lack of wanting to know, to be honest. Doctors really do make the worst patients.
Maybe I had hypothyroidism (fatigue)? Or diabetes (big risk for heart disease)? Or low testosterone levels (HA!)? Or early kidney or liver failure (a bit ridiculous but you never know)?
Not having my own doctor, I ordered blood tests on myself. Up until recently, I had been feeling really apathetic lately (but much better now). I looked forward to seeing what I would diagnose in myself, as opposed to others, for a change.
Back in the stairway,
"This treadmill is a whole fucking lot heavier than I thought it was," I realized.
Amy was right. This was a bad idea.
"I'm not going to stand here and watch you try to move that by yourself. Do you think I'll be able to lift it off of you if you're trapped?! You better wait until my dad gets here tomorrow! I mean it!" Amy said before she stormed off.
"Baby, I'm not going to move it into the basement tonight. I'm just taking it out of the box," were my potentially famous and fatal last words.
I could practically feel the myo-fibers in my deltoids straining to snap as the massive bulwark of so-called fitness started to push me off balance at a rather scary rate.
Suddenly the combined unstoppable force and immoveable (by me) object stopped. I stood firm for a moment. Then peered at the underside to see what had saved me. One of the tiny legs of the treadmill had hooked itself on the doorway at the top of the stairs.
I looked back. Just six more steep steps down.
I couldn't stop now. How would ... The LIGER! get down to the basement to use his kitty litter box?
Time for a different strategy. I slowly tilted the gigantic metal tombstone and unhooked the last remaining leg and anchor against gravity.
How funny, that the very machine I bought to improve my longevity was threatening to cut it pretty damn short if I lost my footing again.
Do it for ... The LIGER!, I thought
After I had my blood drawn, I eagerly checked the computer for my results. The good news was that I did not have any problems with my thyroid, my liver, my kidneys, my balls, nor did I have diabetes.
The bad news was that my cholesterol was horrible!
Total Cholesterol 247 (>240 is too high!)
LDL 167 (the bad cholesterol, too high!)
HDL 47 (the good cholesterol, not high enough)
Triglycerides 197 (3 points higher and it would be too high!)
Holy shit! I definitely thought I'd get better numbers than this. I can run more. I can definitely improve my diet. I guess this means no more chocopies.
I don't want to end up with a heart attack by age 40. Nor do I want to be dead at age 47 like my dad. Nor do I want to leave Amy to raise a child on her own, like my mom. Nor do I want to leave my Baby Boy without a father while he's still in his teens. God, no.
But I do not want to start medication unless all else fails.
So that was the day I decided to get an exercise treadmill. I could run on it five days a week no matter how cold it was outside. I would even buy another TV and watch my k-pop videos on it while I ran. (K-pop is low in cholesterol and good for your heart!) With my beautiful k-pop goddesses beckoning me on, and Death chasing from behind, I figured that would be motivation enough.
I had to do it for Baby Boy and Amy!
(... with a little help from FinKL and Park Ji Yoon, pictured below.)
Hmm. If I managed to keep the treadmill pushed against the hand railing in the stairwell, then that friction and leverage could (1) help slow it down and therefore, (2) not crush me to death. Two very good things!
I got into position again. This was it. No more treadmill legs to save me from being trash-compacted.
The obelisk of obliteration began its grinding descent as it scraped against the railing. THUD! One step down. SHshkshkskshh! More rail scraping. Good thing we didn't paint anything down here.
I briefly thought how amusing it would be if I ended up in the medical ICU at my own hospital. I happen to like the people in the MICU, plus I'd get some great pictures for my journal! (Look mom, NO FUNCTIONAL ORGAN SYSTEMS!)
But then I realized if I were crushed under this treadmill, it would be considered trauma, and therefore I'd be turfed to the SURGICAL intensive care unit.
Oh no. No! Not the SICU!
I remember the horror stories from Dr. Goldenage when he was a patient there himself over a decade ago. Plus some of the things I've written in the past about the eternal conflict between Medea Sin (medicine) and Sir Jury (surgery) would be enough to get me a wide-bore catheter where the sun doesn't shine, which would go well with the multi-resistant infected butt ulcer I'd end up getting too.
Not the SICU!!! ... Wait .... Must ... slow ...down .... No no no no no no ... aghghhgghghh..... Jane stop this crazy thing....
THUD shkshksh THUD shksh THUD shsh THUD THUD BOOM!!
The steamrolling down the steps practically shook the house's girders. I could tell Amy felt it from the second floor when I heard her footsteps scrambling down the steps from the bedroom then into the kitchen. Her adoreable silhouette appeared in the doorway above when she saw me.
I stood at the bottom, arms raised in victory! Red-faced and a little short of breath. Muscles taut from a rather brief but intense workout. The treadmill still half on the stairs but safely resting against the basement floor at my victorious feet.
"I can't believe you got it down there!!" Amy said, relieved I was okay.
"Ah, it wasn't as heavy once I got it out of the box," I said as if it were a piece of cake.
I managed to drag it inch by inch into the corner. Amy looked at the side of the machine that had scraped the railing,
"This side is all ruined."
"That's okay. Still works."
Genetic fate is like gravity, ignoring it can kill you.
But sometimes you can work with it, and alter the otherwise inevitable. It just takes some work.
"Make sure you take those dusty socks off before you leave the basement," Amy reminded me.
"Okay, baby," I answered.
And I did.
You can mess with genetics, gravity, and personal injury, but you don't mess with Amy.
