The Powers of Christmas. . .and Tara!

Be wise!

Never doubt the uplifting power of Christmas! You don't even really need to believe: not in the power of the Christian Christmas story, nor need you live and exercise its basic faith. All you need to do is participate in the generous tradition of Christmas. That's what makes the difference. . .the way its Spirit of Generosity lifts our spirits and guides us more securely into the arms of those we love.

No story illustrates the power of generosity -- the true spirit of Christmas -- better than does Dickens' Christmas Carol. When we think of true passion, we often think of romantic or erotic love, that love which ties us to our wives or husbands. But it's well to remember the deep passions that tie us securely to our best and most endearing ideas -- like love of friends, family, and country, for instance. Eros is surely passionate. But so too are Agape` (the idea of passionate celebration) and Filos (the passionate love that ties us together across generations) . While husbands and wives love and celebrate each other with great passion, we are also driven by our love of family, love of country, and by our love of traditions which tie us together. No love is stronger than a true Spirit of Generosity, that spirit which ties us to all those we love and all ideas we love.

Indeed: for many of us, Santa Claus truly IS coming to town. . . .

For instance: this weekend we've spent several hours together, putting up six Christmas trees in various rooms of our home. Five of them we decorated. The sixth tree we saved for the boys to decorate when they return to us from their father's house.

Six trees. Pretty strong come-back. In the good-OLD days, Nancy usually decorated ten or twelve trees. During Nancy-Time, one twelve-footer soared toward the ceiling in the living-room across from the fireplace. The remaining nine trees -- six-to-eight footers -- occupied most of the main rooms of our home.

Incidentally, PLEASE! Don't think so-called artificial trees can't be strikingly beautiful!

To begin with, they're perfect in shape, no bare spots turned to the wall. No dried-up, dropping needles and related fire hazard. No steadily drooping boughs as days pass. And while they're expensive initially, they serve faithfully season after season. Some of our present trees are by now thirty-plus years old. And over the years we've acquired large plastic boxes of specific decorations, each neatly designated for it own special tree: the Santa Tree, the Snowman Tree, the Aunt Tree and so forth. Each year the the trees acquire more specific decorative items, each year they get more beautifully expressive of the season. We are truly passionate about them.

My wife Nancy was a wonderful artist with a special knack for creating and acquiring beautiful things that made our home increasingly beautiful and welcoming over time. That was true of any season. But Christmas -- the Season of Generosity -- inspired Nancy especially.

For three years following her death I stumbled gamely through the decorative Christmas process. All was not lost, because my clumsy efforts brought Nancy back to us, as I struggled to live her spirit best I could. But it wasn't until this past summer when our daughter, Tara, and her two sons moved in that our home began to express again the joy that Nancy once brought to it.

Tara is so much like Nancy: the same knack for laughter and happiness, for gentle-firm-handed leadership and full-hearted loving. Simply put, Tara is like Nancy in that she somehow knows all the important things to do. . .and how to do them. She has the same special artistry in everything she does. Then, when Jon -- Tara's new love -- arrived on the scene, all the ingredients were present that made this whole house sing.

The trees are every bit as beautiful this year as were Nancy's!

More than that: Tara's very presence has changed everything in this household for the better. Tara and Jon made this past weekend a joyous time. They've recaptured for us all a wonderful spirit of generosity. (Nor does it hurt that Tara is a magnificent cook!)

Evidence of Tara's creative spirit, the beauty she projects, are present throughout the house. The trees and mantle-pieces are stunning. The entire house has come alive with beauty. And I have no doubt she and Jon will add still more beautiful elements as time passes and Christmas approaches.

We wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS!
We wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS. . .
And a Happy New Year!

Yoga: Get WITH IT, or Get LOST!

Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday, Dear Bobby!
Happy Birthday to me. . . .

YEP! I'm beginning my 76th year this morning. Can't believe it.

As the day began this morning, I lay still for a moment beneath my quilt and ran an inventory:

Quick head-turn?
Still makes the room spin.
Ooops: blood supply still low.
Blood pressure prob'ly still low, too.
I'm still recovering from recent illness.
What else?
Aching knee: needs second replacement!
Tiny roll around my middle:
I need to re-instate vigorous exercise.
But NO!
Not until blood-level and blood pressure are restored.
Brief pause for yawn and
BIG luxurious stretch:
lower back and hamstrings tight:
unwise four-day holiday from yoga.
Costly laziness!
Low-grade pain between my eye-sockets:
too much celebratory wine last night!

But then a guy's gotta celebrate his birthday with friends and family -- doesn't he? After all, one never knows when the present birthday celebration's the last one. Due attention must be paid!

Okay: on to yoga. I hate that final moment each morning before I force myself to begin my morning yoga ritual. I don't want to begin stretching. But I know I have to start, and know also that I will be glad I did. I take a deep breath, gather my knees to my chest. . .and begin.

Another long yawn, accompanied by stretching-side-to-side rocks which press my lower back deeply into the hard mattress. Knees tight to chin. Satisfying pops and slippery squeaks, signal that wayward vertebrae are slip-sliding softly back into place. I roll gently to my feet beside the bed, extend my legs one at a time, stretching my calves and hamstrings, extending my arms, reaching far as I can across the bed, feeling my spine and shoulder joints awaken with numerous grinding pops. I raise my head, rising to my elbows, making wide-slow neck rolls, which effort yields strange sounds, vaguely reminiscent of squishing a sacka marbles with both hands.

Next, a series of long one-legged squats followed by deep-low knee stretches, both of which produce a series of thrusts which slowly propel me to the furnace room at the far end of the finished basement. Good balancing exercise, too. Once there, I hang for three minutes from my overhead bar listening to a veritable symphony of joint-pops and related skeletal complaints. Then six painfully slow, straight-legged lifts, followed by seven inverted-hand pull-ups -- which usedta be a whole-lot easier. And a whole lot more than seven, too. Next, I hoist myself up above my parallel-bar-pipe-rack and produce seven grunting dips. . . which usedta be much easier and more numerous, too. My upper arm and shoulder strength are not what they once were.

Advancing age demands its due respect. I'm always trying to establish how much I can do well, while still avoiding the possibility of over-work injuries. Two relevant questions: how much work is enough to maintain my strength? Where is the precise margin between maintenance of health and debilitating injury?

By now I'm loose enough for an easy yoga sequence. Slow, easy downward dog. Upward dog. Next, long, gliding thrusts which force balance and alternating quad-stretches. These lead to upward-twisting pyramid, both sides. I hold each posture through three prolonged breath-cycles, all the while maintaining an easy flow through my favorite postures, working muscle-groups firmly against each other. Finally, standing easy, shoulders squared, I execute a series of long-reaching bends and stretches. Gradually I feel my balance and strength returning. Halfway through, my body's taut and supple, slender and exultant.

Soon I'm fully awake and functioning like a boy. Deep breathing cycles. Easy does it. Slowly taking command of my body, feeling the sweet pain of deep stretches that test and strengthen and restore flexibility. This is my every-waking-day ritual that sustains my sense of physical power while simultaneously restoring my sense of personal discipline. I may not be youthful anymore. But it helps me beyond measure to ACT youthful.

After all, what is youth, if not to respond creatively to physical and mental challenges?

So my every day begins. Soon my body begins to sing its old youthful song. Seventy-Six, your ASS! I can't put a year on it. Even though I start my every morning yoga and stretching regimen somewhat more slowly than I once did, my body's still mine. It still does my bidding. And while my body initially complains more at the beginning of my morning yoga ritual, it nevertheless responds bravely, performs proudly, springs quickly back to life. Invigorates me. In some ways I feel more disciplined, stronger than I ever was. Every morning yoga session seems a major victory. Victory over a growing tendency toward laziness. . .a growing tendency to turn my back on the very discipline that is yoga. Yoga, the discipline that puts me in charge of my every day.

Every morning, my body's like a separate thing, bent first upon defying and disappointing me, then upon pleasing me. Hard to tell. Maybe it pleases itself. Performs as it always has. Sets and meets its own healthy standards. On the other hand, I realize my body performs as it does because I've paid close attention to it for decades, have loved and cared for it well. I've trained it well. It demands of itself . . .once I get it going. And once I get it going, yoga rules my mind and rewards my best efforts.

Yoga is not about living forever. It's about living every moment as well as possible.


Still, I confess this past month has frightened me some. When two necessary surgical procedures backfired on each other and nearly bled me out, I felt suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Suddenly, nearly seventy-six, felt really old. And I began to wonder fearfully: Is this the beginning of the FINAL decline? Doubts began to sneak in and unsettle me.

It wasn't like I felt I might soon die. Or had even seriously considered the possibility. But in that unsettled state I began to speculate. . .about the quality of my life: looking backward over the long haul, then forward considering what may be left, and how I might meet the challenges remaining -- such as they might be. Mostly: what AM I determined to do with the precious time left? First thing? An unyielding demand that I continue my morning yoga ritual. I felt that if I could still do that, my weaknesses would be temporary. If I could do that, I knew I would remain in charge of my life. That ownership of self is one of the many gifts of yoga.

But: yoga aside -- and its positive impact upon my body and state of mind -- recently I lay there in that unfamiliar hospital bed, nine long days and and ten nights, mostly waiting and wondering. I drew some conclusions I hope are sound. I made some plans.

First: I've decided NOT to go back to teaching. Been there. Done that. Loved it. But I feel the need to go forward. That is, I'd like to do something different, introduce some new challenges, change the patterns of my weeks and months.

The most obvious thing I might choose to do is re-establish contact with some of my earliest friends. At my 55th High School Class Reunion, two years ago I was shocked -- indeed, we all were -- to discover that the memorial table recognized nearly half our graduating Class of 1953. Of 134 graduates, slightly fewer than half attended. In fact, counting spouses, fewer than 134 showed. Makes ya think!

Most came from far away as California, a few from foreign countries. Several were among my old football buddies. Some of them've become globe-trotters. In fact, we've made tentative plans to meet in Greece this coming March, then jump off on a tour of places they've visited already and are certain I'll like. Long before then, I should be fully recovered -- my blood and hemoglobin counts fully restored -- and I'll be runnin' on full throttle. I'll maybe go early, visit my Peace-Corps grand-kids in Romania for a week, then fly to Greece for our hook-up and subsequent travels. Should be a fun extension of our recent class reunion.

So that's one sort of thing, one sort of plan I have to establish and then force myself to follow-through upon my plans. Like quite a few of my classmates, I've had a wonderful life, a great marriage and career. Like several of my old classmates, I've recently lost my beloved spouse. Great though my prior life has been, what's left of my life is a new ball-game. It's now time for me to start over, to make this final quarter of my life as fulfilling as I can.

Maybe I CAN find and win a woman, a new friend I can love as well as I did Nancy for nearly four decades. Risky and challenging, YES! But a worthwhile endeavor nonetheless. One thing my long and idyllic marriage to Nancy taught me is that the best of men prosper when they have a good woman to live-UP to. It's no small or simple task to love well, to put another first, to earn and hold the love of a best friend.

Nevertheless, the process of loving someone well is always growth-producing. The good life always demands stimulation and growth. I've always been a learner and teacher, lived the sort of life that demands I pay attention and constantly learn how to live in richer ways.

I don't always like the demands of such a life. But I remain disciplined. My life is something like yoga. I hate it but love it much more. Still, I refuse to give in to laziness. What are those nearly lost lines from some old Emerson poem I read all those years ago in high school? Something like:

So nigh is grandeur to our dust.
So near is god to man.
When duty whispers low, thou must.
The youth replies, I can. . . .

To the degree I live those few lines, I remain youthful, at least by that standard.

Every living moment demands one's very best effort. My recent ten-day hospital sojourn was a perfect example of what I mean. It's no easy challenge to remain your best possible self when you're accustomed to a vigorous life from which you feel temporarily removed. There you lie mostly flat on your back, through long-idle days. Nurses, doctors, and support staff wander in and out every hour of the day and night. Your best self demands interest in these visitors: you set aside your book, produce an authentic smile, a bright greeting, a willingness to present a well-punctured arm for still more blood samples and the like. These health-care workers deserve at least an Up-beat manner, even when they suddenly awaken you at 2:00am in the morning. You're not in control of anything except your reactions to the demands and challenges of the moment. Their job is to get you well. Your job is to treat them well.

No excuses! That's what I mean by insisting upon producing one's best self at the worst of times.

Here's the point I'm coming to: the good life is largely a series of challenges that force continuous RE-inventions of the self. Illness or exhaustion are no excuse. I know I need to be aware that my very best self is always there awaiting my summons. I'll either get with my best self, or risk losing its magic -- and the joy of my life. The message?

Constantly re-invent oneself. . .
Or lie down and die!

Blue-Day

Gray-day actually. Somber.

He lay back quietly, hands crossed high upon his chest beneath his chin. Flat on his back on the long leather couch, ankles crossed, he gazed out the kitchen window into the bare tree-tops. Thick masses of black limbs against gray, late-fall sky.

In fact, most of the window was hidden behind the high back of the couch and the large conical shade of the reading lamp which rose at the corner where the two lengths of couch formed a right triangle. A thin sliver of sun burnt through the gray overcast, penetrated the limb-mass, and outlined the bottom curve of the lampshade.

He lay there, his mind empty, his chest quietly falling and rising beneath the few panes of the sliding glass-door that framed the gray sky. No moan of wind. No movement among the tightly interlaced branches. His eyes focused there, upon the mass of high trunks giving way to the top-most branches. Black against gray.

Still early morning in the silent house. He'd risen at first light -- restless, but lazy. No plans until early afternoon when the entire family'd assemble and rush the Peace-Corps grand-kids off to the airport for their flight back to Romania. First, two hours to Chicago, then a 12-hour flight to Munich, then a short wait for their connection to Timisoura, Romania. . .their home away from home for some seven months more. A twenty-hour trip. Tiring. Still, the kids had each other.

For the moment, he lay there waiting. All cozy, stomach fulla warm oatmeal. Mind idle. Could be he'd let go. . .doze off again.

But then the poem popped into his mind. . .e e cummings. Cued by the mass of high branches, the lines rolled out. Just the words. . .came out of his head with little of the outlandish typography so typical of eddie estlin cummings. Just the lines. . .grouped the way they made sense to him:

I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart.
I'm never without it. Everywhere I go, you go, my dear,
and whatever is done by only me, is your doing,
my darling. I fear no fate. For you are my fate my sweet.
I want no world. For beautiful you are my world, my true.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant.

and whatever a sun will always sing is you.

and here is the deepest secret nobody knows:
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide.
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.
I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.

Something like that. Pretty close anyway.

The poem had haunted him throughout the past seven years: the three heart-crushing years of Nancy's long dying and death. . .the four grief-filled years that followed. Right up to this present moment.

He realized she was irretrievably gone. Yet, notwithstanding that irreversible fact, she remained persistently alive. Present, yet elusive. Always actively alive in his mind. . .just as she had always been during their idyllic, thirty-seven-year marriage.

He awoke every morning without her warm form in his arms, or perhaps she was behind him snug and spooned, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders beneath the covers. He'd cock his head sleepily, glance quickly around, squint into the darkness, yawn and grope about. Where was she? Surely in the bathroom. Down in the kitchen? . . Surely somewhere close by.

Then he'd suddenly remember. . .each passing month with less pain, acknowledging, making what peace he could with the stark fact of her absence.

The sudden memory came increasingly more lightly as time passed. At some point in the transformation, he began to think his forgetting a good thing. . .began to think he was somehow conjuring her presence, as if forgetting she had died was somehow a strange way of keeping her alive. . .keeping her present to him.

During the unfolding months of his grieving he had learned to summon her to him, even keenly feel her presence. The process seemed little different than when she was alive. She taught high-school health and coached young female athletes. He taught at a nearby university. In quiet moments during his office hours -- and even in his classroom when he taught -- during interludes where his students were working together in groups. . .during such times, his mind would shift, and he'd summon her presence. And there she'd be: present, real, accessible. Warm and smiling.

True: they'd had a special bond. Paid attention to each other. Worked together. Helped each other with household and gardening chores. Played tennis, skied, biked, took long walks. Theirs had been an extraordinary friendship.

Then came breast cancer that spread to her liver. During those terrible final months she released him: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. Be happy. Loving as you have loved me is the best thing you do."

He promised her he'd try.

But the effort he promised had soon became a fool's errand. During the nearly four decades he'd loved her, not once had he seen a woman like her: warm and loving, brilliant and beautiful, supremely attractive, youthful and compelling. Always interesting. Always interested in him. And he was already 72 at the time of her death. True: all his life he'd been an athlete: had worked-out, practiced yoga, hiked and biked, ate well and sparingly, remained vigorous and healthy. Constantly tested his body. He studied and stayed abreast of research in his field. . .in every way he could think of, he worked hard to live-UP to her, and hold her love.

Still, after her death, he realized that even had he found the woman she hoped he might, it was highly unlikely any such new woman would find him interesting and attractive. He was aging, after-all

The Cummings poem haunted him as much as did she. Her death had shattered him. Indeed, Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. He fell into a largely solitary existence, continued his physical regimen, read and studied, exercised and stayed physically fit. He traveled to visit old friends.

Best thing: their youngest daughter had a stretch of bad luck. She and her two gorgeous-bright sons moved into his large and beautiful home. Here's my recommendation: you ever hit a hard patch, bring your striking daughter and her five and seven year-old sons into your home. Bring as well her new best friend. Lots of astonishingly good things'll happen, but the laughter alone will save your life.

But in much the same way as when he and Nancy lived together and loved, after her death he carried her heart with him. . .the core of her, snug and safe in his heart. And over time the meaning of those difficult e. e. cummings lines became increasingly more clear to him. He felt and understood those powerful lines:

. . .here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide. . . .

The facts of life are unyielding and immense, immutable and impersonal. Death and pain are real. They come to us all. Life spares no favorites. Nancy lost the life she loved. She was blameless. Yet the cure he hoped for Nancy was not forthcoming. Nor can he hide the fact of her death. Still, he CAN carry her with him safely in his heart.

And though his life as a widower is not yet good.
It's steadily getting better than he had ever dared hope!

Gladta Be Back!

Been in trouble this past 15 days! Sick and in the hospital most of that time.

All started with a series of tests prescribed by my new doctor. Not blaming her! She wanted a series of tests to establish her own baseline understanding of my health.

I think she was right. I've been feeling uncommonly tired after my daily workouts and walks. Found myself thinking:

You're aging buddy! Accept that fact.
Cut back your physical regimen.

But I wasn't sure. And I don't like giving in to changes. Especially when I'm forced to conclude I'm getting seriously old. Especially when I don't have all the facts. Life-changing decisions should demand a closer look.

So I agreed: We should base any decisions on a series of tests.

Two of them nearly killed me. The first was a colonoscopy. My last one was over five years ago. This one discovered five polyps. They sat there like old buddies, all smooth and round, grinning at me in their picture. . .as if the joke was on me. Obviously benign -- as later analysis proved them to be. Lucky me! But they were large, and their removal left a sizable wound in my large intestine. Still, I felt no more stress than had the procedure been a haircut.

The second procedure proved more difficult. My new general practitioner saw some troublesome signs in a recent stress test. So three days after the colonoscopy I took the scheduled heart cath. This procedure discovered that the three major arteries on the left side of my heart were about 95% blocked. . . which discovery led to an immediate, very thorough and successful angioplasty.

The before and after pictures of my heart are astonishing. Before: the three arteries appear much like dried-out and shriveled ends of a dead tree limb. All three arteries show more than a single blockage. How the condition hadn't triggered a major heart attack puzzles me. After: all the plaque had been removed, and three stents were strategically placed. Blood flow is abundant. Completely restored -- an amazing transformation.

In retrospect, the truly astounding thing is that I had been able to continue my usual daily two-three-hour-brisk walks and weight-training regimens. And how had I maintained my balance and strength during my daily yoga sessions? No wonder I was feeling tired.

But the real problem was the required addition of the blood-thinning drug plavix to my daily prescriptions. This drug threatened my life, because it scrubbed the "scab" off the wound in my bowel, and in a matter of hours, I had expelled approximately two pints of blood into the toilet. Or so I was told. . .though the arcane formula by which my doctors determined the actual blood-loss is equally lost upon me.

THAT was scary! It was a serious catch-22. My heart-guy rightly feared that without plavix, the sort of stent he'd employed might be quickly clogged with plaque. My bowel-guy rightly feared that plavix would bleed me out. Where was the middle ground?

As they discussed my predicament, it was first thought it would be necessary to REcauterize the wound in my bowel. But what if this procedure merely enlarged the wound in my bowel and the new scab be washed out by the plavix? Could they then resection the bowel? And if they did so, would this procedure then bleed? Not an easy problem to solve.

And there were other difficulties. My hemoglobin count went down from my usual rosy 12-plus to a little over 8.0. Worse, my blood pressure -- usually 120 over 60 -- dropped like a shot-put. At one point in the midst of the crisis it was like 70 over 20.

Plus I inadvertently made things worse when they moved me from surgical recovery to a private room. I was light-headed. . .kept passing out whenever I raised my head. But I was experiencing pressure in my lower bowel. . .felt like I had to move my bowels.

Somehow I got myself super-wobbly onto the toilet. There I sat, perched on the throne, hunched over, elbows on knees, trying to keep my head from spinning. Bearing down, I felt the tell-tale squirt I remembered from expelling blood earlier.

But I'm ever the incurable optimist. I wanted absolute evidence. By now I was exhausted and light-headed, bent double over my thighs on the high stool. I turned sharply to the left over my thighs, reaching back to my right, the toilet tissue in my right hand. At that exquisite point of extension, my left elbow slid off my left thigh. I fell forward onto the tiled floor and felt my head explode into stars. I blacked out.

How long I lay there I can't determine. But when I woke up, I discovered my nose had bled, forming a big circle beneath my left cheek. My jaw was fiery pain. I had an immense goose-egg on my left temple. It felt like I had broken my cheek-bone and left eye-socket. My head was spinning. My left shoulder ached. I needed to throw up.

My head cleared enough for me to realize I was shut into the bathroom. I needed help. But that alarm-string hanging above toilet-paper roller was too high. Okay: don't panic. . .one thing at a time. . .deep breaths. . .collect some energy. . .open that door. . . slither out where someone might find me. I crawled a few feet to my right, reached up with my last ounce of energy and yanked down on the door handle. Big victory! The door popped open first try. Thank goodness! I was able to wriggle halfway through. I passed out again.

How long I lay there I have no idea. Next thing I knew, hands were all over me. I flew through the air and came down lightly onto a bed. And then it was like one of those hospital scenes in a movie where corridor lights fly by overhead.

I woke up sometime later in the ICU. Lotta bustling people, indistinct murmurs, busy hands all over me. . .like that. Friendly place. I passed out again.

When I awoke later, I was told I had been lucky: they had found me. They were now ramming me full of saline and anti-biotics and some concoction I was told would quiet my bowels and counteract my impulse to evacuate my bowels. or something like that. My mind wasn't completely clear. I had this big goose-egg on my left forehead. My jaw was broken, high up near the top of my ear. My left shoulder which had absorbed much of my fall, felt broken. But a series of scans discovered it wasn't. Nor was my neck. . .which felt injured. Tile-over-concrete floors are unforgiving. I had an excruciating head-ache. But: I would recover.

Or so they said.

And, in fact, I had been lucky. Had I fallen flat on my face, I'd have surely broken my nose and smashed my teeth to smithereens. . .and done my cheek-bones no good at all. Nevertheless, years of shaving have made me acutely aware that it would have been at least difficult to do much harm to this face. I felt glad I hadn't done even more harm.

I also felt stupid. Who goes to the hospital with serious difficulties AND MAKES THINGS WORSE? I felt as if I had flunked an IQ test.

I was not made aware of the REAL PROBLEM until the next morning. How to continue the plavix, preserve the stents, AND stop the bleeding? I had lost more blood.

But I'm home after eleven days. . .not bleeding now. I know it's likely I will be back to my OLD energetic self in a matter of weeks. Of course, I would much rather be back to my NEW energetic self . But at my advanced age, that's unlikely.


Still! If you think I've been a little UNlucky lately. . .consider this: about four days before this comedy of errors began, I had been called by our local blood bank. You see: I donate a pint of my blood at regular intervals. Mine is B+. They call me. Anyway, the Wednesday they called me I was crazy-busy with errands. Didn't make it in. Had I made it in that day -- as I had planned to -- I would have been THREE PINTS down instead of TWO. I call that MY good luck. Whoever needed my blood that day, might not have needed it as much as I did some four days later.

I'll soon be back to long walks, weight training, and yoga.
I'm feelin' younger every day. How 'boutchu?!