Medical – Snail Trek Blog

Curtain Call

In sleep, Dad might wander a path, inhaling the fragrance of pine trees, or he might revisit familiar, cozy places he held dear. But now he was aging, and naps brought confusion instead of release. His body faltered, and he grew irritable. A uniformed nurse at the assisted-living facility stepped in to give him medication, easing his agitation. As his mind relaxed, so did his muscles. Soon, his lungs would forget to expand; finally, his heart would forget to beat.

We were still on our way to see him when the message arrived—Dad was gone. Only the night before, we had returned from visiting our daughter and her family halfway across the country. I kicked myself for poor timing: I had missed Dad’s departure from Earth by forty-five minutes.

At 106, Dad would often ask, “Why am I still here?” He had lingered on, outliving friends and family. Each time we parted, we knew it could be our last. Still, we shared a secure peace; if it were our final goodbye, neither of us would have regrets.

We cared for him during the nine years after Mom died. Many weekends meant a two-hour drive to see him, tending to his needs, followed by a weary drive home—and then preparing for another long workweek. The rhythm repeated, week after week.

During those nine years, Dad cared for us, too. His humor cleared our career-compressed fog. His devotion to beauty, art, and faith pressed us to look inward, outward, and upward. He remained delightfully quirky: every dog he greeted received a firm rumple of its nose pressed lovingly together. While he never received a nip at this greeting, the canine communion mystified both the unsuspecting dog and its surprised owner.

But eventually, like his own father’s gold pocket watch, the spring broke. No amount of winding its crown would have any effect. Its time, like Dad’s final nap in his small bedroom, had run out.

But this was not Dad’s first dance with death; it was his curtain call. Fifteen years earlier, while shopping at Costco, he left us the first time.

He had stood in the long prescription line among other shoppers, heads bowed over lists and membership cards. Suddenly, Dad simply tipped over—a toppled mannequin. Like a felled tree, without flexing to break his fall—he was dead on his feet. His heart had simply stopped, as if to say, “I’ve had enough.” Flat on his back, the fluorescent ceiling light cast a blue tint on him, contrasting the red blood draining onto the concrete floor from beneath his head.

On his way down, he had nearly struck the woman standing behind him—a providentially placed nurse who immediately began resuscitation. Then, paramedics—shopping a few aisles over—rushed over to help, trundling him into their ambulance, lights ablaze and sirens wailing.

When Dad’s head had hit the cement floor, ever the artist, he might have enjoyed a foretaste of the beauty offered by his beloved artists—Monet, Klee, and Van Gogh, ushering him into God’s ultimate glory, appearing just ahead. Earth’s painted canvas retreated behind him, while before him stretched a new, unending one.

Then came the command: “Clear!” as the ambulance team attempted resuscitation. Somewhere between Costco and Sharp Memorial Hospital, the EMT’s defibrillator jolted Dad’s heart alive.

The glorious images on the divine canvas faded from Dad’s vision. It dissolved into cold stainless steel, a vinyl gurney, and IV drips as Dad shuttled back to Earth, bouncing along in the ambulance.

Revived, he arrived back from his first death.

Dad’s later years were bookended by his two deaths—the first in Costco, into the waiting arms of a nurse and ambulance crew, the second, the curtain call, in his cozy assisted-living bedroom.

The Psalmist reminds us, “The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places.” Certainly, Dad’s lines had fallen in pleasant places. His life’s boundaries had quietly expanded, stretching out like hidden markers beneath the snow.

My father leaves us his story, this dog-loving artist marked by a star-shaped scar on the back of his head. And he would ever encourage us—no, he would insist— that we keep asking ourselves his favorite query, “Why am I still here?”

Precious Years

A brother and sister, our children’s playmates, were a matched set—like miniature chess pieces—completely out of scale with other children their age. They were aging at a furious pace.

Their paper-thin skin stretched over their fragile frames. Tripping over a garden hose could be dangerous. A misdirected softball might shatter their brittle bones.

They both suffered from progeria, a rare genetic disorder that occurs in just one out of every four million births. Progeria brings stunted growth, abnormal facial features, and rapid aging. The average life expectancy is just 14.5 years.

Yet while these neighborhood children were trapped in old bodies, their spirits hadn’t gotten that message. They launched their miniature frames like carefree foals, sunlight dancing off their bald heads, their oversized eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Though their hyper-aged bodies may have been nearing the end of life, the children gleefully rode tiny bicycles down our street with the joy and abandon of most nine-year-olds.

They were the happy children. They seemed to savor every moment, free from anxiety, fully engaged in each passing day. Their joy seemed a deliberate rebellion against passing time. Though their coming years might be few, their spirits pushed progeria to the very edge of their lives.

Another image comes to mind: Judah’s King Hezekiah, sitting in the shadowed corners of his throne room. At 39, he had already lived twice as long as the expected lifespan of my young neighbors. He, too, suffered from a terminal illness—a painful, ulcerous disease. But unlike the joyful siblings, Hezekiah was consumed by despair. Despite his wealth and power, he felt abandoned and afraid.

In his desperation, Hezekiah cried out to God. And God answered, granting the king 15 more years of life. During that bonus time, he even fathered an heir to the throne.

Today, many of us enjoy an even greater bonus. With medical advances and improved living conditions, the average lifespan has climbed into the seventies—thirty years longer than that of a person in 19th-century England, and twice the years Hezekiah had been given.

Longevity is a luxury. But it’s also a test.

Will I spend this gift of time clearing e-mails, binge-watching forgettable shows, or fixating on ulcer-inducing headlines? Will I obsess over spreadsheets, hoping to avoid starvation and failing to keep up?

In contrast, I often recall the wholehearted outlook of my children’s progeria friends. Could their example teach me to invest my own years more wisely? Could I cultivate a heart that is more hopeful and grateful for the joys each day brings?

Whether we face a shortened life, a fifteen-year bonus, or a thirty-year longevity bump, one question rises above the rest:

Not “How long will I live?”

Rather, “How will I fill the time I have been given?”

Through the Firestorm

You Are Loved © Craig Dahlberg

My neurosurgeon declared my back a disaster zone. “You’ve got major problems in every part of your back, all the way down.” My MRI agreed; weird twists, turns and dead ends. Doc said it best, “Your back looks like a pack mule’s path down into the mine.”

As the Los Angeles firestorm raged a few miles from my hospital room, needles had invaded veins in both my hands in preparation for my back surgery. Pain clawed my brain. The world around me—my body, other hospital patients, caregivers, and all those fighting flames—seemed to struggle against a rapidly darkening place.

A newly arrived nursing assistant had just started her shift. She was a woman with a big presence and even bigger false eyelashes. Needing relief, I asked her to tell me something interesting about herself.

“Honey,” she bellowed, “I just love people! I love helping people! I can’t help it! I just love people!”

My “dark place” violently imploded. She was just the cure I needed. God had worked overtime to intersect our lives at this moment.

But when the hospital shift changed, a different, more subdued and thoughtful nurse took charge of me. I soon discovered the reason for her demeanor. Because I asked, she showed me her family portrait—a handsome couple with their 3-year-old son. Last month, her husband’s father passed away from an inherited disorder causing glandular tumors.

Then, just last week, she discovered her son had inherited the same incurable condition. He faces lifelong vigilance and surgeries. As she told me her story, her face was resolute, unblinking, stoic.

As we talked, I began to think. How many people hold the cures for what ails others, if they would only reach out to them? And how many needy people have I passed by, never offering the help they needed and I could give?

I turned to look at my roommate. Helpless and diapered, nurses had to occasionally assist him in his bedridden state. But that triggered fierce coughing, which induced long bouts of vomiting.

Of course, I could hear through the privacy curtain when his daughter came to visit. He was confused, unable to connect the dots in their conversation. “What are your wishes?” she asked repeatedly and emphatically, like he was a child.

That was easy. He wanted to go back home.

“But that’s not a choice, Dad. I meant, which hospice facility do you prefer?”

He did not answer.

The next day, his wife visited him. She gushed with emotion. “Honey, I just love you so much!”

After a long silence, he sighed and muttered, “Oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” she replied, confused.

“I don’t know. This might be the end.” Although he was speaking of his own life, his voice contained no hint of desperation, no anxiety, not a touch of fear. His pain seemed to push his heart into a new orbit. Perhaps he saw more clearly than anyone else around him.

Because of his suffering and commotion, the nurses offered to move me to a quieter room. I declined. Though we could no longer converse very much, we understood one another.

But, as I was wheeled out of the hospital to go home, I paused at the foot of his bed. I stared into his face and gave both his big toes a squeeze; he nodded and smiled back at me.

I know, and you know, that when our physical bodies reach the boundaries of their human capacity, hope can become stretched thin. But in that weakened place, those squeezes, nods, and smiles reach our deepest place. They carry the expressions of love, the best gift that God offers us. And they are the best we can offer to others.

Big Eyelashes, Brave Nurse, Distressed Roommate, the Firefighters — you all carried the same message: You Are Loved.

What We Leave Behind

My curled fingers held one drinking glass and grasped the rim of another. The other hand clenched a used Kleenex tissue and half a dozen Lego bricks. As I left the living room, I placed the drinking glasses in the kitchen sink. Down the hall in my room, I tossed the Legos into their bin and flicked the sticky Kleenex into my bedroom trashcan.

In our house, we exited a room with religious fervor. My mother’s directive was clear: Never leave a room empty-handed. Her decree had sound roots. Hands, she believed, were God’s perfect tool. Their five-fingered design could manage a vast array of objects. As we devoted our hands in unity of purpose, our family could keep the house tidy.

If Mother suspected a protocol violation, her raised voice echoed, “Your hands aren’t empty, are they?” Alerted, I would lunge for a mislaid comic book or snatch an out-of-place plastic model airplane, jam them into my fists and announce, “Oh, no! My hands are full!” Disregarding the ordinance would earn a volley to “tidy up!”—not only the offending room, but the entire house.

Mom, the original efficiency expert, is gone. Her voice now directs angelic hosts in orderly discharge of their heavenly duties. Even today, upon leaving a room, those long-ago adolescent etched-in habits send my empty hands a-twitching—why are my hands empty?

Now, the prevailing winds of age have re-directed me. I’ve grown fond of a newer, contrarian urge. Instead of my take-it-with-me instincts, I now ask myself: “What can I leave behind?” Let me explain.

A squat, thickset man, stooped, chin implanted into his chest, shuffled into the jammed outpatient surgery waiting room. Each movement declared his obvious pain. The other patients in the room monitored him, hoping he would pass them by.

Groaning and perspiring, he paused, rotated like shawarma on a rotisserie, and lowered himself into the chair next to me. The cushion blurted a flatulent protest. Overflowing the chair, his left shoulder leaned into me, his arm draped across mine. Face down, his head rested upon his hands, which rested on his cane. He panted from the exertion of walking. Both his knees bore the heavy scars of replacement surgery. I felt trapped.

Too quickly contemplating how to break the uneasy silence, I blurted, “Hi, what are you here for?” Good grief! You don’t ask that of a man, hobbled with pain, in a medical waiting room! Just shut up!

Head still lowered and resting on his hands, he groaned, “I’m John. I have, um, degenerative disk disease. Terrible pain. Runs the whole length of my back.” He regained his breath and muttered, “Every day, I’m in agony. The pain never lets me go.” He seemed as relieved as I did at the broken silence. “What about you?” he asked, forgiving of my incursion.

Me? His response set me on my heels. I explained I was not a patient, but was here with my wife. We began comparing medical notes. Gradually, we shifted into another far smoother conversational gear. His face, now off his hands and cane, carried a smile. We shared a chuckle together, and then another. We teased. We taunted. We cajoled. Ignoring unease, we pushed back against our differences, away from our discomfort. We made room for one another.

Soon enough, a nurse whisked John down the hallway in a wheelchair. His empty chair’s vinyl seat cushion re-inflated. Mother would have been proud of his departure’s tidiness; nothing left behind.

Or was there, indeed, something he left behind?

After John left, a profound stillness followed. But in the stillness, there was no emptiness. Something different and fresh lingered—the gifts that John left behind. The gift of a welcoming spirit. A gift of grace. Unexpected joy.

And he left behind a question for me to consider. Which is more important—what we take away with us, or what we leave behind for others?

Autism Speaks

There’s a catchy autism awareness bumper sticker I see around town; maybe you’ve seen it, too. It says, “Autism Speaks.”

It’s a catchy phrase because I’ve experienced that frustrating non-verbal characteristic of autism. I’ve never had a conversation with my 10-year-old grandson who has autism. The non-conversation is not because we’re never in the same room, and it’s not because we don’t love each other. It’s because of autism. As a youngster, Levi enjoyed the monosyllabic language any typical two-year old utters. In the garden, his hair scrambled and sticking out as if electrified, he would point and proudly call out, “Bird! Bird!” just like his father had at that age, many years before. Stumbling forward, eyes wide, he would seek out another bird to practice his language on. Other words emerged, appearing just as his small-person personality was beginning to bud and to bloom.

But then, gradually, like a weighted blanket drawn over part of his brain, his communication gradually quieted, then nestled into numbness. Slowly as the tide retreats, the silence gathered, and eventually, without fanfare, Levi just stopped speaking. Mysteriously, something in his brain stopped the typical synchronization with the fresh-blossoming world around him, and the silence moved in.

Autism is a strange thief, picking and choosing different skills to manipulate in different brains. The boy who lives with his mother two doors down the street suffers from a kind of autism with no “Off” switch. Their house is a museum display of a mind that cannot turn off, autistic developmental history scrawled onto ruined walls with crayons and magic markers. His is a brain possessing a limitless mania to disassemble pieces of electronics that were previously functional, and an unending requirement to express language like an open faucet with a broken valve. Or, more accurately, controlling his need to communicate is like trying to turn back Niagara Falls.

Contrast him again with our Levi, absent of the ability to generate any conversation at all. When energetically prompted, yes, he can repeat words, but they hold little meaning for him. They are learned behaviors, empty containers to comply with one-word instructions of those around him. Birds on the wing no longer speak to his soul.

Yet Levi is happy. He expresses gratefulness through body language. He has learned to hug! He rolls upon our bed, over and over, enjoying the exquisite softness of the bed covers. When he takes a shower, there is no stream too strong or too long to satisfy his love for water. And he laughs, oh, can he laugh, great belly laughs that contaminate a room with joy.

Is his autism at times discouraging? Yes. Hopeless? No.

Many years ago, when Team Jesus rolled into town, it was like nothing else anyone had ever witnessed.* A team of modern-day medical experts could not have done better. It was not really a three-ring healing circus. It was a One-Man show, with Jesus in the center ring, the other rings empty save for those needing his healing service. As the gospel song testifies, “Jesus on the mainline (—in this case, the center ring—) tell him what you want.”

The lame? Zap! Done. Walking again.

The blind? Biff! No problem. Vision restored.

Crippled folks? Boom! All those in attendance leave this meeting under their own power.

Those who couldn’t speak? Hurrah! Words given, conversation gained.

Wait a minute…”those who couldn’t speak”? That’s autism! Jesus recovered speech for the autistic? But back in the day, there was no such disease diagnosed as “autism.” Yet it happened.

No one knows exactly how autism works, where it comes from, or what triggers it. But I understand autism just a bit because I confess that I, too, have “it,” autism, that is.

I have the kind of autism that robs that part of my brain of certain kinds of speech. It’s the autism-like cloaked part of my brain that takes kindness for granted and does not show enough gratitude to the grocery clerk or the waiter or the neighbor. It’s the part of my brain that does not say, “I love you,” to those dearest to me. It’s the part of my brain that does not thank for my health, for my bank account, for this day, for the sun. And yes, it’s the part of my brain and my soul that expresses little gratitude for the song and the flight of the bird, bird, bird.

Indeed, autism is a spectrum, with great variation of effect. And a great variation of lessons to be learned.

So there’s hope for us all, wherever on the spectrum because, well, we have got to believe, we cannot forget—we must say it aloud—that all things are yet possible.

For surely, Autism Can Speak and Does Speak to us all.

*Matthew 15:29–39

The Decades

Each new decade of our life signals new ends and new beginnings. Perhaps a new decade reminds us that maybe, just maybe, we are ushering in a smidgen of new wisdom into our lives. If we are fortunate, grateful endings and unspoiled new beginnings can be a part of this decade-aging process.

This year, I rounded that new decade corner by entering a new, “I’m Now-in-My-70s” decade. Make way! I’m already seventy-times-round-the-sun age! How could that happen? Just yesterday, it seems I was making a figure of my first grade reader’s mascot, Penny the Cat, cut out of construction paper and handsomely colored with crayons. Years became decades. Navigating college lunch lines and managing social circles pushed thoughts of Penny far to the side. Falling in love and finding a job and raising a family, all while trying to figure out who I was—and would become—were exhausting and all-consuming. More aging decades of ends and new beginnings emerged and disappeared into fog. And then came the Golden Years and retirement, that vast canvas scroll of uncertain length. So much already behind. Formal education, done. Children, grown up and on their own. Check. Career, or make that plural careers of unequal lengths and varying quality. Got ‘er done. In hindsight, was I actually designed to evolve into whom I have become or what I have done? Never mind. It’s all in the rear view mirror, all bound together, sometimes tidy, sometimes barely held with crude baling wire.

There remains one unlikeliest constant companion in all this sea of decade-swapping change—my primary care physician. He increasingly populates more appointments on my calendar with each passing year. He is now 87 years old, and I thought he was elderly when I first retained his services, 25 years ago. He’s a remarkable man, having reared two sets of twins and a several others as well. On his days off, my doctor is a flight instructor at the local airport, something he’s done for 40 years.

With each weigh-in at his medical office, I vainly empty my pockets of all extraneous possession. I deposit loose change, keys, pencils and pens, even dental floss on the table before stepping upon the weigh-in scale. Still, each succeeding annual checkup records yet another pound or two of additional girth. Then the inspection begins, first the easy stuff—ears, tongue, nose and throat, working up to the pokes and prodding in the belly and groin. The tour then explores those naked tender spots that I myself have never seen with my own naked eyes, those remote regions requiring my physician to navigate with finger probes, accompanied by comments, “Ah, I see!” But I cannot see any of it.

Last week, this primary care physician and I entered into a lively debate about arthritis pain medications and their accompanying side-effects. Prepared in advance for this discussion, I unabashedly displayed the sophomoric research I had gleaned from the Internet. He was not impressed. “So you want to suffer on a daily basis in the remote off-chance that this medication could shorten your life?”

“Well, yes, I don’t want to die unnecessarily,” I responded, rock-solid sure of my YouTube research footing.

“I have a different take on that,” he suggested. “We don’t have yesterday. We are not promised tomorrow. All we have is today. And I believe in living it, today, the best that we can. Make full use of today. Take the damned medicine.”

“Oh, and one other thing,” he continued. “You know, we’re all going to die sometime. Something or another will get all of us, right?”

Once I got home and the embarrassed flush had cleared my cheeks, my brain engaged enough to recall a passage from the book of Hebrews. Yes, that Hebrews. “By His death, He could break the power of him who holds the power of death…and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death.”

Welcome to my 70-year decade. Should be a fun ride.

Restoration

Imitating the moves of a geriatric ballerina cost me a year of good health. A practiced and willing orangutan could have performed the right-hand to left-toe reach-around hold without injury. Unfortunately, no such orangutans were present on the day my father needed his couch re-situated upon its wooden block risers, so I performed the risky contortion—and I survived the back-wrenching ordeal. The Flying Wallendas could not have been prouder.

Until, that is, the next day, when, like amputated insect legs, my lower limbs felt disconnected from my body. I wasn’t sure which way they were headed. Balance was unpredictable. Numbing weakness and throbbing aches took up residence in my back, legs and ribcage every day since.

My year-long quest for restored health featured x-rays, MRIs, steroids, physical therapy, neurologist nerve-tests, a series of two epidural injections, and six acupuncture sessions. Finally, a neurosurgeon performed what seemed the most elementary of tests: he tapped my elbows, checking for reflexes, and found that there were none. Absolutely none.

A new MRI revealed that the problem all along had been in the thorax, not the lumbar part of my spine. The neurosurgeon’s pronouncement, ”You have significant spinal stenosis and require surgery. This is not an option. Without it, you could become paralyzed.”

Twelve temporary staples now hold my skin together while the underlying backbone heals. Ten fragments of a ruptured disk were removed; while the disk was damaged, it was not destroyed, eliminating the need for fusion screws.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

Tunneling beneath the skin, long-dormant nerves are now re-awakening, re-uniting with long-separated relatives. And as they celebrate, waves of itching flesh and random shooting pains announce they are ready to party.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

Welcome home, legs. Welcome home, spine. Welcome home, burning, displaced nerves around my stomach. We are at peace once again.

Colonoscopy

The Winter Olympics have the luge event, toboggans violently hurtling tightly-fitting passengers down a tube of pure ice, slick and smooth as a child’s slide descending from an ice castle.

Instead of the luge, doctors have the colonoscopy. Like the luge, it requires guidance using surgical precision, and it necessitates traversing a long and winding passageway. Unlike the toboggan, the required equipment carries no passengers along its slow, meandering course. It delivers hi-tech equipment, snapping pictures, snipping samples, and performing minor medical corrections along its medical mission.

I’m now in the hospital’s gastro-intestinal waiting room. All around me there are procedures underway. Sloth-slow devices are creeping carefully along, fiber-optically photographing dark tunnels of colonoscopic flesh.

Meanwhile, in my waiting room, overhead televisions project the Winter Olympics, competing athletes performing sports perfection. If I’m fortunate, a luge event will be displayed on my television—sleds slicing breakneck down icy tunnels. At the eventual conclusion, a winner will be declared; medals will be awarded to the athletes atop a victor’s podium.

At the end of today’s event in my G.I. waiting room, a drugged patient with temporarily impaired memory will emerge and be rewarded with tourist-like photographs snapped along the slow, abdominal journey. Unlike the Olympic festivities, there will be no victor’s podium ceremony. No anthems played.

Well-deserved praise goes to the eventual breakneck-speeding Olympic luge champion–national flag unfurled, anthem playing in triumph.

And hail to the slow-motion, sloth-speed, fastidious colonoscopist for polyps discovered, removed, and clean bill of health restored. Surgical gown discarded, the hospital speakers page this doctor, urging him to yet another slow-motion, high-performance venue.

In the ER

In the ER, getting Jackie checked out for possible gall bladder problems. Seeing folks who are suffering is always troubling. In additions to his obvious injuries, this fellow sitting next us had no legs below his knees. So he probably didn’t fall off a ladder. At least, I hope not.

The iOlympics

I’m an Olympics junkie. I know that because during this year’s games I‘ve been unapologetically watching synchronized diving, beach volleyball, and badminton cheating scandals. These sporting events would typically garner my apathy. But during the Olympics, the post-event television reruns keep me up too late at night.

It’s enough to make me wish I excelled at either an exotic or uncelebrated sport. Any sport will do. All the hubbub makes me want to compete and excel at something.

But how do I identify that special sport? The trick to Olympic excellence is often whittling down to a very narrow, specific sporting event. There are dozens of niche specialties in sports such as track and field, swimming and gymnastics, each event intended to highlight the expertise of a person matching the requirements of that special niche. Can’t run a marathon? No problem. How about 10,000 meter? 5,000 meters? 3,000 meters? 1500 meters? 800 meters? 400 meters? 200 meters? 100 meters? 60 meters? See? There’s something for everyone.

I’m also secretly grieving my now-absent sporting prowess. Once universally recognized as the fastest runner in my elementary school, my glory has faded, leaving this former sixth grader not-so-impressive and not-so-imposing.

I need a new sport in which to compete—perhaps a much more specialized, personal competition, a sort of iOlympics. But still, how do I discover my own uniquely tailored made-for-me iOlympic event?

A few months ago, I complained to my doctor about ongoing lower pack pain. After an x-ray, he revealed the prognosis. I didn’t appreciate the chuckle in his voice as he told me.

“There are three certainties in life,” he began. “Death and taxes are the first two, and you’re fortunate to have experienced only one of those so far.”

“Great,” I replied, sensing I was being lured into a medical humor trap. “What’s the third?”

“Degenerative disk disease!” he grinned. “It comes with the territory as we get older. Some people feel the pain more than others. For you? Eh—it’ll probably get worse over time. That’s how aging is, you know.”

On my way home, I flicked on the seat warmer in my car. It seemed to help ease the lower back pain. I haven’t turned it off since. But in 100 degree summer temperature, it can sure make the backside sweat.

Thus I discovered my iOlympic event. Like the pentathlon, my physical disciplines are several strenuous elements combined into one back-pain busting event: stretching, pulling, arching, bending, and lifting to develop core muscle toning and strong abs.

No, it’s not exactly an Olympic event that could result in a gold medal and the obligatory national anthem, but it’s good enough for me. My gold medal iOlympic routine will help to keep me on my feet and out of the doctor’s office.

Now that I’m getting pretty good at one iOlympic event, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be adding some more performances to my repertoire. The Ten-Pound Belly Fat Drop? The Eight-Hours per Night Sleep Stretch? The Extended Book Reading Marathon? The Staying on Budget Until the End of the Month Grind?

There are probably plenty of iOlympic events to go around.