I step onto the treadmill in bare feet, loose ripped jeans, and a Bengals tee shirt. I hold onto the bars and count backwards from six as I exhale and backwards from three as I inhale. I read somewhere that counting backwards is supposed to help stop your mind from latching onto anxious thoughts that might be bubbling up. I am short of breath due to a mixture of some light anxiety about exercise induced shortness of breath and from getting up out of my office chair and walking the three feet to the treadmill. 

I squeeze my eyelids shut until my breathing returns to my normal pace. I click the start button on the left treadmill bar and open my eyelids to a blue screen and hear the familiar beep of the treadmill firing up. The belt initiates its slow crawl and I bump up the speed to 1.0 mph. To distract myself for at least 30 seconds I open up the Netflix app on my phone and scroll through to find a mindless show to watch. Volume up, hit play. I set the phone on its side on the tiny ledge in front of the timer and mph indicator. Watching the seconds and minutes slowly tick up makes me want to let go of the treadmill and let myself be slowly carried away into the dog bed Jimmy decided to move directly behind the treadmill. 

I can hear my breathing in my ears. I decrease the speed a bit to get my breath back on a more normal rhythm then increase back up to 1.2 mph. My neck muscles strain with each breath. I tried to soak yesterday in the tub with a CBD bath bomb to ease the pain in my neck muscles and upper back muscles from strenuous breathing the past couple of weeks to no avail. The angle required to get my neck and shoulders underwater impacted my breathing too significantly to make it worth it. This morning my neck and upper body were so sore I could barely move without wincing. I took Tylenol to combat the pain but right now each breath triggers more pain. I hit the stop button on the treadmill bar and lean forward against the center console. I slide my phone slightly to the right. I made it 12 minutes. 

I lumber off the treadmill, grab my water bottle from my desk, and slump onto the couch in my office. My toes knead the rug as I lean my forearms against my thighs counting and breathing. A tiny spark fizzles in my chest, a little reminder of my flight or fight responses. 

Six, five, four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. 

I ease my shoulders down as best I can and stretch my neck ear-to-shoulder on each side. I straighten my back, it cracks in the usual spots, and then lean back against the cushions. I grab my phone and exit out of Netflix to pull open MyChart. I log my 12 minute walk in my health tracker and return to the home screen of MyChart. On the home screen, my upcoming appointments list out in front of me. Next appointment: Tuesday, pre-transplant pulmonary function tests and labs. I press the side button on my phone. My reflection stares back at me against the dark screen. I am so tired. 

I lean over to pet Jimmy who usurped the other giant fluffy round dog bed in the office from George. I slide onto the floor next to the dog bed and stare at the wall and continue petting his soft fur. He stretches his stick legs out with a little shake then tucks them back into the parameters of the bed with a big sigh. Every six weeks I go in to check my pulmonary scores by completing various tests in a plastic spaceship egg on a tiny metal seat with a breathing apparatus that calculates my lung function. Tiny old school looking nose plugs are required, restricting my ability to breathe through my nose during the tests and removing the ability to have supplemental oxygen on during the tests. After the rounds of testing, I complete a six minute walk which is conducted in a hallway at the hospital. Orange cones are put out as are signs for people to take a different route due to testing in progress. An oxygen saturation monitor straps to my forehead and is draped around my torso for the nurse to monitor as I make my loops around the orange cones, hands on hips breathing in-and-out I push myself as hard as I can to try and get as many feet/meters in within six minutes. Six minutes never feel as long as the six minutes during the six minute walk. 

The frequency of my PFTs in combination with the wait makes my body feel like lead leading up to the appointment. I pause petting Jimmy to open my phone. He lifts his head, stares at me then air bites in my direction, wags his tail and sassily stretches for attention. I click on the Google Chrome app to ask “how many days has it been since August 6th, 2021*”. 

352. 

*I was activated on the lung transplant list.