An important message from the National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute
I made it.
With literally thirty seconds to spare before the doors closed I stepped into the 5:32 train.
I forced the guy seated in the little seat near the door to give up his two-seat monopoly by saying, "Excuse me, do you mind if I take that seat?," fully expecting him to grimace and move out to let me in. As anticipated, he did exactly as I predicted.
As soon as I sat down I began to sweat like a hog well knowing he was next on the chopping block.
I had literally had sprinted half a mile up Park Av from 32nd, because the subway train I had just boarded, the stop before, was now stopped because a big old Tyler-Perry-looking black lady had injured her ankle and a police officer had begun writing an incident report when I stepped off to see what the hold-up was all about.
Immediately, I decided that this was going to take longer than forever and so checking the time—5:25, I decided to make a run for it. I had seven minutes to run ten blocks thru a million pedestrians at rush hour and ten stoplights.
By block-two my lungs were burning, that tightness in my chest that I had started to feel a couple hours earlier at my desk was feeling tighter, and the bitter cold was simply a nuisance and not conducive to run like Forrest.
Nonetheless and allthemore, I had to stop-and-scurry up a block only once, ultimately making it to the train in time.
As I waited for the conductor to look down, nod and say "Okay," so I could put away my wallet, I couldn't help but worry that I was going to be the next passenger to delay a train.
Due to all the moving of furniture, yard work and general labor around the house for the last four weeks, I have had extraordinary exposure to all the allergens that make my life miserable: house dust, cat dander, mildew.
As a result, I now carry around an emergency inhaler just in case I have an asthma attack.
Unusually short of breath, I was compelled to use it while we waited for the train to roll.
However, what has been more disconcerting to me, is that I've consistently been under so much physical duress for the last month that every morning when I scurry to catch the train and every night when I drag back up that hill, I cannot help but wonder (and worry) as to when I'm going to have a heart attack.
Coincidentally, two hours earlier I was interviewing a colleague for a story I'm writing and she told me that she had been delayed because a good friend of her's son has just died. He was 45.
I'm 45.
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