Therapy

I was holding out until after Chinese New Year's to start my serious blogging, but there are things I need to get off my chest now, figuratively and literally. I was sitting in my bathtub sponging myself clean and ran through a full range of emotions from "am I stressing myself out" self-doubt, to "wtf - why can't I have one healthy season" outrage, to "damn it I am still going to do this ironman" determined resolve.

This all started last week. After a 3000meter easy swim workout (mostly drills) and a leg/core weight lifting session, I clean myself up and head to a movie with my friend. Halfway through the movie things get interesting. Heart palpitations, chest pain, lightheadedness, nausea, followed by a splitting headache. And no, it was not the movie.

So today I had an echocardiogram done and was given a heart monitor. I was told to do what you normally do. So I lifted weights and spent two and half hours doing SERIOUS indoor cycling. We don't throw a spinervals DVD in and watch it on the big screen. This is more like a prop-your-bike-up-on-an-8-inch-block-and-climb-for-18-minutes
followed by 15-minutes-of-sprints type of workout. I showed up at the group session with some funky new gear - a monitor the size of a small purse and five electrodes hanging off my chest. What fun it is to tell everyone: "My heart isn't working right." I was warned by the hospital techs not to get the electrodes wet; I won't tell them that my shirt was drenched in liters of sweat. I couldn't hold the some of the high RPMs like I wanted but I got through the workout.

So fast forward to my sponge bath. I have not had to do that since I tore my ACL a second time. It makes you think how fragile you really are. But there are some things that are more serious than others. If you rip up a knee, you can repair it eventually walk and run again. If your heart goes out on you, well you're probably dead. I get to rip those electrodes off my chest tomorrow and I have my follow up next week. I know I can still push myself and I will. But regardless of the diagnosis, I know my subconcious mind has already installed that restrictor plate.

It really sucks when Superman realizes that Lex Luther has some kryptonite in his back pocket.