I can feel the air leaving my body as I stretch to tie the laces of my shoes. Keeping the laces straight is the priority because the sideway-sitting bow is a signature of the overweight. This morning ritual is just one of many where my breathing is labored, the chest heavies, and mortality whispers its goodbye.
I seem to lack the strength to sustain the changes needed to build towards a longer life. I cling to the refuge of faith to keep me safe, hiding and ignoring my responsibilities to honor a body that, through 40 years of abuse is finally saying, “Fuck you! I give up too.”
If a stroke did not motivate, what will?