Once last fall, in the midst of battling the worst of my post-heart-attack depression, I told a friend to be worried if I didn’t blog for a while. That writing was something positive I was doing, and if I couldn’t summon the energy to write, something must be wrong.
So, unsurprisingly, she was a little worried when there was only one post in March, and that was about how much I love nuts.
But it wasn’t depression this time, it was just my regular life taking over, and I think that’s a good sign. We went on vacation in early March, and when we returned, I had a lot of volunteer work to get done, chairing my sons’ school PTA auction fundraiser. With only a few limited work hours available when my little Emperor Palpatine wants me to help catch Clone Troopers hiding in the dining room, I was just, well, busy.
So it’s been a while.
It’s also been a while since my heart attack, at least in the cardiac-care world I live in. Eight months tomorrow, to be exact. Not that I’m counting.
Oh wait, yes I am. Did you know that 42% of women who’ve had heart attacks die within the first year? Most of the time I feel safe and healthy and happy, and eagerly plan my summer of strenuous races and tennis lessons and yoga and training. And then I realize how lucky I am that I’m training for a marathon within a year of my heart attack. That I get to work out as hard as I want. That I can play baseball for hours with my family on Easter. That I’m here at all.
Sometimes I can’t wait until August 14 and I pass my one-year anniversary. Will I then be safe from that statistic? It’s been a while. But not long enough.