If you hadn't noticed, yesterday was Valentine's Day. If you ask me, a day full of pink sugar, red roses and tacky office sweaters is just what the doctor ordered to pick us up out of the winter doldrums and make us all realize that in a world that seems full of hatred and greed, love, actually, is all around (I think I heard that somewhere, anyway).
Though it is the shortest, February is by far my least favorite month. It's still dark by 5:30, the only good sales are on cars and tvs, and unless your football team makes it to the Big Game, you're stuck counting the minutes until pitchers and catchers report (because everyone knows that in basketball and hockey, the middle of the season kind of sucks). Here in New England, February is generally the time when we also experience a few weeks of frigidity -- the kind of cold that leaves one wondering if his or her limbs are still attached and then, once inside, provides assurance by setting said limbs ablaze in a hailstorm of pins and needles.
I would, however, like to hand it to the American Heart Association for the ironic twist of naming February as Heart Health Awareness month, as there are few things more painful than having your heart pump eight pints of fiery platelets through a previously frozen appendage.
Considering the degree to which heart disease has touched my family, I think it is important to spend part of February paying attention to hearts that are not of the conversation persuasion. I believe I speak for most people when I say that we all know someone who has been affected by The Silent Killer. Heart disease doesn't pick its victims based on age, gender, orientation, income, economic status, or occupation; sure, these qualities can -- and often do -- play a part to some degree, but in the long run, it's terrifying to know that this merciless assassin can strike down anyone, anywhere. Heart attacks, stroke, blood clots -- these terrible incidents are the ultimate nondiscriminatory killer.
For the past thirteen years, at least, I have been brutally aware of that fact. My mom had her first heart attack at 38.
If you're counting, that's only ten years older than I am now.
At this point, I've forgotten (or mentally blocked) exactly what happened and how it all played out. I do remember the firetruck outside of our apartment, and the EMTs struggling to get the stretcher around the tight corner of the stairwell. I remember my mom gasping for breath, my three younger brothers and sister crying and neighbors coming outside to see what was going on. I remember being thankful that I had a learner's permit and jumping into the Suburban to drive myself to the ER to wait. Most of all, as is to be expected, I remember the paralyzing sense of fear and wondering if my mom would ever get to see me go to prom. To graduate. To get married. To have babies.
To hear a doctor say the words, "heart attack" is terrifying. To hear the words, "but we expect her to fully recover," is to truly understand the word reprieve. Thankfully, back in the year 2000, we heard both. My mom did end up recovering from the experience, but unfortunately it wasn't the last time we would endure that kind of terror. She's had a few other cardiac incidents since. My Grandpa died of a stroke when he was in his sixties and I was in grade school. My Gramma passed when I was a senior in college, seven months before she could see me graduate. High blood pressures and cholesterol run down both sides of my family. So does being overweight.
Heart disease is a bastard.
When I was 23, I learned that I, like my relatives before me, had borderline-high blood pressure. Fresh off of two years living on bagels, beer and butter, I was certainly overweight. More importantly, I was stressed out and sedentary. I knew that I wasn't living the healthiest lifestyle, but to hear a doctor say, "you have pre-hypertension" after watching my mother's ordeal was the kick in the butt that I needed. I threw myself into diet and exercise with a vigor I hadn't had since high school. I cut back on the drinking, even when my friends tried to tempt me into "just one more" at the bar. I started taking yoga and attending Mass again, because both helped to calm my overstimulated brain. Pre-packaged foods and the salt shaker became relics of my past. I lost thirty-five pounds, and while the smaller pants size was nice, it was the 120/80 that really made me feel like I had done something important.
As you likely know by know, over the past five years I've gained some of (most of) that weight back. The interesting thing about that, though, is that my blood pressure is, for the most part, normal. Sure, it falls a bit higher on the meter than I would like it to, but even at the same weight that set off those alarm bells, I am without a doubt far healthier now than I was then. A year ago, I was having some scary chest pains and immediately saw my doctor to discuss my concerns. I told her that I was afraid, because my mom's heart problems started at such a young age. She pointed out that my mother was also a smoker, which is something I can thankfully say I never got into. More importantly, she pointed out that I eat (for the most part) healthily, that I had run a half marathon three months before and that I passed a heart-rate monitor stress test with flying colors. She did an EKG just to be safe, but everything was, thank heavens, normal.
Getting a general health workup can be intimidating, and yes, I admit, a bit embarrassing. It shouldn't be. Doctors shouldn't be there to
shame you; they should be there to help you understand where you are,
and how to get where you want to go. The same can be said for exercise.
Part of how I got to the point I did was because I was embarrassed to
exercise, even when I was alone. All those jiggly, wiggly bits in the
mirror made me wonder why I was bothering at all -- and heaven knows how
mortified I was to exercise in public. All those taut bodies lifting at
the gym and running in the streets, and I would be what? Red-faced and
panting after a minute, disclosing to the world how out of shape I'd let
myself become? No thanks.
But I started by taking it one step at a time (literally). I started leaving for work an hour earlier and walking the three miles to the office. Gradually, I found different routes that worked in hills, and eventually, I started jogging to the mailbox after work. I bought Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred, and on the days when I thought, "I'm just too tired; my arms are going to fall off," I told myself that any effort, even a half-assed one, was better than none at all. I took this same approach in the kitchen and researched dietary causes of heart trouble. I began reading labels and realized that most of the foods on which I had been relying during my weight loss journey were packed with salt (including the ones I made in my own kitchen; I'm looking at you, Hungry Girl). I bought an older edition of the AHA cookbook to save some money, and aimed to make one recipe from it per week; that book is, to this day, the most dogeared copy in my kitchen library. Slowly, but surely, my systolic and diastolic numbers began to fall. The scale was just a happy byproduct of my efforts to get heart-healthy.
I guess the point I want to make here is that no amount of effort is too small. So often, we get bogged down with numbers on the scale or the back of our pants. Yes, excess weight is an important risk factor in heart disease -- but it isn't the only one. Cardiovascular health is a multifaceted concept that demands so much more than a little heart symbol slapped on a box of Special K. It requires time, effort and patience. It requires us to speed up physically, but to slow down mentally. Perhaps, above all, it requires forgiveness for transgressions past and commitment to a long and active future.
So this month, for just a minute, we should all take a step back from the overcommercialized glitz and glitter that usually embodies February, and consider the most important hearts of all: our own. Because whether you love Valentine's Day or loathe it, I think we all would like to be here to celebrate it next year.
