Earlier this week, a nurse handed me my glucose/lipid profile on a sheet of paper.
I wanted to frame it.
My triglycerides count, a measure of fat in the blood, had dropped by two-thirds in three years. Total cholesterol was better. LDL. HDL. Practically every category was a marked improvement.
For once, I was happy I wasn’t like my father.
Haunted by hypertension and high triglycerides, he died of a heart attack at age 64.
So when my lipid level spiked in 2010, I went to work.
I quit baking a dozen chocolate chip cookies every night after supper. I rejoined the YMCA, taking aerobics classes two, three times a week, jumping and punching and sweating as typically the only rooster in roomful of hens. I ran 5Ks.
And pretty soon, I was the lesser man for it.
My father’s father died before I was born. My dad never got to see my children.
It’s history I’m bent on not repeating.