SOB exercise

Yes, in the literal sense.
But also, in my world SOB = short of breath.
There is most definitely a double meaning to this blog title.

I've always LOVED exercise - walking, snow skiing, step aerobics, swimming, the gym. Whatever I did, I enjoyed it, it came easy, and I always felt better afterward.

As we all know, vigorous exercise is both good for the lungs and heart. Exercise is an important key in the CF world, for the airway clearance component. Break a sweat, *cough*, clear the lungs, *cough*, the more aerobic exercise, *cough*, the better. But as the CF lungs progress, exercise becomes more difficult, not being able to take a deep breath in. A Catch 22 quagmire.

The last 5 years has been a period of gradual slowing down. My snow skies, just lay there waiting to see snow. Billy BIanks Tae Bo and Buns of Steel videos pushed to the dark recesses of the shelf, collecting dust. My 24 hour fitness membership card is hiding in a closet, somewhere. The treadmill, broke and is long gone. The pool, well, that is a big, huge puddle of germs I wouldn't even dare face anymore. I mostly just walk now, and try to go on at least an hour walk when I do. Used to be everyday, but now down to maybe a couple days a week or when Terry can coax me. Even walking, makes me SOB. It's painful and anxiety sets in when I try to exercise and can't breathe. Exercise feels like it has become a form of torture . . . and it annoys me to think I just can't do what I want.

I was in clinic a week ago, and my doc asked how the exercise was going. I sheepishly looked at him, knowing what was coming, and said, "Well, I'm still walking." He looked at me, smiling of course, and said, "You need to step it up a notch, try running a little."

RUNNING?!?!? Are you flipping kidding me??? I've NEVER been able to run, even as a kid. Of all the exercise in the world, that is the ONE thing I cannot do. Oh, I have very vivid memories of NOT being able to run.

I grew up on a street where every home had 2-3 kids, mostly boys. I played outside all the time, with the boys and all their competitiveness. We happened to live in the exact center of our block, so our house was the starting point for running races to the corner. I always came in last, knowing by the 4th house I was toast. I was forever teased that I couldn't run, pegged because I was the chubby, girl.

Jr. high PE was a nightmare for me. I remember in the early 60s, President Kennedy set up a standard physical fitness test every student must complete. To pass the tests, everyone was required to do a certain amount of sit ups, pull ups, various other fitness standards and of course 50 yard dash, 100 yard dash and the dreaded 600 yard run.

I remember pleading with my PE teachers to be excused from running. I explained that I had asthma and it hurt to run. They showed no mercy, and instead yelled at me, with pointed finger, to get out there and RUN! Again, I always came in with the bunch of girls who were always last. My forehead encrusted with white salty residue from sweating profusely, my face beet red, my lungs aching and heaving to breathe. I can still see Miss DeOlden's face waving me to the finish line yelling, "hurry up", holding her stop watch in anticipation, just so I can hear the words, "FAIL." Blech.

Deja vu.

I saw Dr. R's face asking me to run and my mind immediately flashed back to Miss DeOlden's face. I told him I can't run but that I would promise to try something aerobic, to step it up.

So here I sit, it's been over a week, and oops, still haven't started.
I know the first week is the hardest, I've just got to get over that hurdle.

Better get off my arse and keep my promise to myself and Dr. R.