The Joy of Good Health

Before I retired, I did not take a sick day from 1983 to 2016. Thirty-three years.

At the time, I was oddly proud of that fact. Looking back, I am not sure I should have been.

It wasn’t that I never got sick. There were probably days when I should have stayed home, and I apologize to any former colleagues who may have caught a cold or flu from me over the years. Like many people, I simply assumed good health was normal. I expected my body to show up every day and do whatever I asked of it.

Because of that, I rarely stopped to appreciate how fortunate I was.

That changed in 2018.

Over the course of that year, I underwent three surgeries, lived with an ostomy for three months, and lost two feet of my intestines. In the first days after each surgery, I could barely walk to the end of our driveway. That was humbling. Not long before, I had been moving through airports and busy schedules without giving much thought to my physical limitations. Suddenly, reaching the mailbox felt like an accomplishment.

Recovery taught me patience. It became a process of listening to my body and trying to do a little more each day without convincing myself I could skip ahead. Some days progress was obvious. Other days it was difficult to see. But over time, the body has a remarkable ability to heal if we give it the chance.

Fortunately, the surgeries resolved all of my gastrointestinal issues. Unfortunately, during one stay in the surgical ICU, an infection caused my heart to fall out of rhythm, resulting in a condition called atrial fibrillation, or Afib. Unlike my GI issues, Afib is something I will manage for the rest of my life. Thankfully, medication and a later procedure have allowed me to keep it well controlled.

The point of sharing my medical history is not to generate sympathy. It is simply to share something life taught me.

What surprised me most was not the surgeries themselves. It was realizing how much of life I had experienced without noticing the gift that made all the rest possible.

Good health had become invisible to me. I assumed it would always be there.

These days, I start my mornings by taking our dog for a walk before sunrise. Nothing remarkable happens. The neighborhood is quiet. The sky slowly brightens. Birds begin their morning conversations.

Years ago, I might have walked through those moments while thinking about meetings, deadlines, or the next item on my schedule. Now I find myself pausing. I listen. I breathe in the cool morning air. And every once in a while, I remember those days when walking to the end of the driveway felt difficult.

The contrast is enough to make an ordinary morning feel like a gift.

At the end of most days, I climb on my bike and ride the fifteen miles around the lake near our home. I try not to miss many days—not because I am training for anything in particular, but because I no longer assume I will always be able to do it. The ability to move, to exercise, and to feel strong enough to enjoy the day is something I appreciate in a way I never did before.

Perhaps that is one of the unexpected gifts of getting older. We begin to appreciate things we once barely noticed.

I do not know what future health challenges may come. None of us do. But today I can walk, go for a run, ride my bike, and spend time with my grandchildren. I can fully engage in their lives and enjoy being part of them.

For now, that is more than enough.

Continue the Journey

Author's note: If this reflection resonated with you, you'll find many of these same themes in my novel, The Meaning of Joy.