February 20, 2008
Rehab
Out of the thirty-five or so cardiacs and don’teverwannabe cardiacs who show up at our rehab center of a day, twenty or so of us usually remain after workout for morning happy hour. This is to remind ourselves with and about what got us there. By that I mean the abundance of coffee, cinnamon-flavored, cream-cheese-slathered cholesterolic bagels, and freshly baked cakes that are passed around for all to share.
Sometime I wonder if this is not what motivates us to chase blood-pressure and waistlines in the first place, the opportunity to put it all back where it came from. The conversation varies. The women and men sit at opposite ends of the big table. The talk ranges from progeny to golf and occasionally to politics, even once to Hillary’s tears.
This morning it seemed less like its usual casual repartee and more like a study group. Several recent issues from our town’s daily were spread around with people going over them in detail. On closer observation, I saw that they were reading the obituaries, checking for ages and looking for any familiar face or name.
Whatever I might say about the obvious irony of it all, there’s a disciplined and almost palpable pleasure in this bunch just to be alive. Some even exercise with canes or walkers and even take half-baked turns at aerobics. Those of us on the 17-lap/mile track usually pair up with the same people, jesting about who is really working or merely sauntering and catching up with what we’ve been reading and who’s been visiting. Some just hog the weight machines as a place for gossip, not letting a lot of reps get in their way.
Were we churchers to realize that we, too, have a common enemy outside and beyond all our often pettiness and crutches and peculiar diets, maybe Old Scratch wouldn’t make so much headway in our councils, and the real Way might be made clearer for ourselves and for others.
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