For the surgery backstory, take a look here: http://jesseq.net/category/tags/cabg

(Disclaimer: Don't read this if you are my mom. There is swearing.)

Yesterday evening (earlier tonight, by my perspective), I rode my bike eleven miles. Not a big deal to anyone who rides with any kind of regularity, except that a year ago I was struggling to ride a few blocks. Exactly six months ago, I was sedated with a breathing tube in my throat.

A couple of years ago, my wife bought me a twenty-one speed hybrid (for non-bike-riding folks, that means it splits the difference between a road and mountain bike) for my birthday. The important thing here isn't so much that she got it for me as that she convinced me that I wanted it. Fifteen years earlier, my bike was not just my primary mode of transportation, it was preferred. But not recently. She figured I'd be happier if I went back to that, and she was right, but getting there was a much more circuitous route that we'd imagined.

I knew I was out of shape, so as expected it was a bit rough getting back into it. I started off by riding a couple of miles a day, figuring I'd set arbitrary benchmarks to gradually increase my range. I felt worn out, but good. After a while of doing this, my breathing felt strained sooner, rather than later in my ride. Exceedingly strained, making me nauseous. It got to the point where I could only go a couple of blocks before feeling so miserable I had to turn around and head home. Then I started feeling it if I did something like go down the corridor to get the mail. There was a hopelessness to it all, that I'd never be able to ride normally again.

In retrospect, I know that it was not my breathing that was strained, but my heart saying, "Fuuuck! We've already had a heart attack, what the fuck is wrong with you? Stop this shit right now! You trying to kill us?"

Mentioning that feeling of strained breathing to my doctor was one of the things that sent me to the hospital for bypass surgery. As he said later, I was doing my own stress testing.

So I feel better now than I did a year ago, before I had a clue how lousy I was. Six months ago, though, was a different story. In the days following surgery, it wasn't the pain (which was often immense) that was getting to me. A lot of little things that made me question if any of this was worth the trouble. Laying in the hospital bed, attached to tubes and wires for days, I was ready to have them put the blockages back if I could JUST TAKE A REGULAR FUCKING SHOWER RIGHT NOW.

For the next couple of months, there was very little I could do for myself. Being told not to lift anything heavier than a bottle of milk is more limiting than you likely realize. My wife was having to do everything for me; I never knew how much I'd want to do my own laundry. I couldn't even focus long enough to watch a movie and justify all this free time.

I was pretty sure that none of this was worth it.

When I finally started going to physical therapy, I was feeling incrementally better, but still not enough to balance out the misery I was going through. In December, my therapist let me know that my doctor had said it was okay for me to start riding my bike again (within limitations); I was pretty happy.

Later that day I rode for maybe a mile before turning around and heading home. I felt good. No strain in my chest. The hopelessness had given way to an honest euphoria, complete with a big stupid smile. I finally felt like all the hassle was worth it, that I'd be able to go further - just not that day.

So eleven miles feels pretty good.