Hands at 10 and 2. I grip the wheel tight. Using my right hand, I reach down and press the call button for my wife. It’s OK. The car’s not moving. I’m idling in the parking lot outside the medical center. My wife usually accompanies me to important visits, but not today. I have to tell her.

I stare at the wheel while my brain frantically searches for words. Like a game show contestant in a money booth or cash blowing machine, the arms and hands inside my brain are flailing around grasping for words they should have readily at their fingertips, but instead the words fly by like a cyclone of dollar bills and my fists are empty.

“It’s you. Are you good?”

Like an early snow, the words gently fall on me. Suddenly I can say what I want with ease.

“Not entirely, but I will be.”

“You’re not in an ambulance. Is your heart ok?”

“I ran my ass off. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t take a deep enough breath. I couldn’t run as long as last time, but I ran enough. It wasn’t chest pain; it wasn’t my knee. I couldn’t take a breath deep enough. Wave forms look good. It’s not starving for blood. Echo is good – my valves are great.”

“They think it’s pulmonary. I get an inhaler tomorrow. He wants me to get a heart monitor for biking, but said I could ride. I have two weeks to clear my lungs and then we go over this again.”

“Honey. This is great news!”

“My heart rate wouldn’t go up. Even after 10 minutes. I’ve trained so hard. I’ve built it into a machine. It wasn’t stressed. He said my biking and workouts have paid off.”

“So you’re good?”

Not entirely, but I will be.