Actually, my life, part ii, started half a year ago, in that escalating series of tests from an in-office EKG, to a treadmill heart stress test, to an EBT real-time 3D capture of my heart, to the angiogram.

I just didn't know it at the time.

The past six months I've been living under the delusion that this will get better, that I will heal. I healed from the angioplasty, sure. When I was released from the hospital the first time, I was told to basically take it easy the first two days, not lift more than ten pounds the first few weeks.

Since then, I've been allowed to run my heart up to 150 bpm, to carry whatever makes sense (Kitten is a little beyond that, I'm afraid) and more-or-less act like I was a normal and healthy person.

Well, that was a score-and-some weeks ago, and we're back to that again. As I said in a previous entry, the cycle is what scares me. Or scared me back then. It now simply annoys me.

I'm not healthy. I never will be.

Every six months, I'll have to have an angiogram again. I'm guessing that some/many/most of them will indicate some more plumbing work.

My cardiologist actually said he would be more happy if I kept my heart rate to 140, but that if I felt that I could handle 150, that was okay. 140 on my bike doesn't even work up a sweat. Besides, the Pacific Northwest is shaped by glaciers and tectonic activity. There is no 'flat' here, so there are no places here where I can just cruise leisurely along.

I've already given up racquetball. I just unpacked my 'gym bag' and looked forlornly at the goggles, the racquet and the can of racquetballs. I don't want to give them away, but I don't know what to do with them. Any ideas?

I don't want to give up bicycling. For economical as well as ecological reasons, I don't drive. I hate being at the mercy of public transit, especially for 'short' (less than 5 miles) jaunts. If the time I spend waiting for a bus is less than the time I spend riding it, then it's a waste of my time.

I think there's a good chance I will have to give up that one last fun sport. Of course, I'm also told to diet, to lose the twenty (or double that) pounds of extra paunch I'm carrying about.

Anyhow, the rest of my life is going to be in a smaller box, constrained by what I can do, how much of it, what I can eat (and how much of it) as well as when I can't do even that much.

This isn't a matter of pity. I know having a mildly limited life is better than the alternative. I'm just annoyed, that's all.

I hate seeing my illusions popped.