Triathletes are notorious for our obsessive nature. We eschew what others use as an excuse (the weather, the sense of feeling exhausted after a 1o-hour work day, our health, the premiere of the newest J.Lo video on MTV) and faithfully execute our daily training schedule.
Every single-one of the 125 flip turns in our 3,000 meter swim set is treated as if it is the last of a 100 meter sprint. Each week we spend more time in the saddle of our bike than the Lone Ranger spent in the saddle atop Silver each television season. We wear-through half-a-dozen running shoes every calendar year. And through it all we count our strokes, monitor our heart rate, measure our VO2 max, and record our pace per mile.
My obsessive nature continues to consume my life out of the pool, off the road, and when wearing flip-flops as well as my trainers. I am often overwhelmed by an unnatural need to count my steps when walking to my car, to chew my food an equal amount of time on each side of my mouth, do always enter a room with my left leg leading, and to hang my towels so that the folds are always pointing away from the corner of two walls.
My friends, only half-in-jest, voluntarily diagnose me as someone who suffers from OCD. Suffering, however, is something I equate with displeasure. And I, curiously, take comfort — and find pleasure, even — in the fact that I cannot go to sleep before rearranging the items in my fridge and cereal boxes in my pantry, before brushing my hair 25 times in each direction, and before winking first with my right, then my left, eye 25 times.
I have to do these things, otherwise I become paralyzed with frustration, angst, and an inability to concentrate on anything else unless yes, indeed, all things are in their proper place; that they are done in the sequential order I convinced myself somewhere along in my childhood is the only “right” (or certainly the “best”) way to do things.
Every Sunday evening I have to touch and realign every single book — already alphabetically arranged by author within sections of western philosophy, eastern philosophy, American studies/government, history, biographies, science, fiction and literature, plays, poetry, sports, business, reference, technical/trade, other — so that their binds are sharply lined-up to the edge of the shelves I display them upon.
Recently a new compulsion has manifested itself: keeping a food diary. It is a bit annoying because of the meticulous attention and time it requires of me. But at least it may provide me with some useful information, or at least, more useful than the information I collect while rearranging my CDs by artist and year of release of each album.
I have always been a conscientious eater. That is, I have always tried to maintain a healthy diet by eating a wide variety of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and protein; and not being so restrictive with my food intake that I fail to occasionally enjoy a few slices of pizza, a hamburger from a fast food restaurant picked-up while on a road trip with a carload of my best friends, or a few scoops of ice cream from the local favorite frozen treat parlor on a hot Sunday afternoon. But I was never one to weigh my food before an after cooking or even count calories. So why this new compulsion?
On Monday of this week, after showering and before getting dressed for the workday, I experienced intense chest pains. I became light-headed, lost consciousness, and awoke a few minutes later to notice blood in my hands and a nasty gash on my forehead. I was bleeding pretty badly, vomiting whenever I stood, and extremely dizzy. My extremities were numb.
I was rushed to the hospital where I spent the day being wheeled in a bed between the emergency, cardiac, and neurology departments. I had suffered a concussion and seizure.
I have met with a number of specialists since Monday, all of whom have me undergo a series of tests. My blood, brain and heart have all been analyzed. But no definitive explanations or diagnoses have been offered, just hypotheses, ideas, “potential reasons as to why this happened.”
I think that this whole food diary thing is all about control, really. The practice of medicine, I learned this week, is not so much about diagnosing a patient with what is wrong as it is about looking at symptoms and testing for what (hopefully) is not wrong. There is a lot of ruling out, but very rarely can doctors accurately “rule in.” I do not have an enlarged heart, I do not have a history of seizures, my brain is not hemorrhaging, I do not have any blood diseases, there is no blockage in my veins and arteries… What I do have is a healthy body that functions normally. But sometimes the body needs to reboot, I guess.
This scares me — that out of the blue, for no particular reason that experts can figure, my body can fail.
I cannot control my body, but I can control what I put into it. And keeping notes about what and when I eat is a bit like playing solitaire: something to serve as a distraction, a time passing activity. I think I need that right now, something to take my mind off of the questions that has been on my mind since: What if I was not able to call for help? What if I had passed out in the shower? What if I pass out when I am driving? Who else could this happen to? Why did this happen?
As for the reasons, not just the rationalizations, behind my other compulsions… I’m still searching.
Until next time…
Run With It!
J.R. Atwood
