My Cardiac Club
By: Mike Edwards Source: AARP Bulletin Today Date Posted: 2006-05-12 09:45:00-04:00
I'm no fan of gyms or mechanical exercise, and I'm far more a loner than a joiner. But after two bouts of open-heart surgery, there I was, sweating and straining alongside 25 other bodies in what seemed like a club for coronary unfortunates.
I was huffing and puffing on a cross-trainer, an exercise machine that I regard as particularly evil, for it punishes both arms and legs. "No pain, no gain—that's not true," Katie Biskey said as she slipped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "But we want you to challenge yourself." Though elevated, my blood pressure hadn't reached a critical range. "Keep going," she said.
Katie was my clinical exercise physiologist in a cardiac rehabilitation program at Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, Md., near my home in Washington. More than a program, it's a support group, a confidence-building uber-support group, and just what I needed. Like many recovering cardiac folk, I approached exercise warily. Would my flabby heart take the strain of working out on that evil cross-trainer and other machines? I didn't know. I did know that exercise was vital to my well-being; studies proclaim its value in reducing coronary risks. I also knew that if I chose to exercise on my own, I probably wouldn't make the effort. I mean, how many treadmills are holding last summer's clothes in bedroom corners across the country?
Support groups are legion these days. They offer moral support and advice or information, reduce feelings of isolation or ease the imagined stigma of conditions such as depression. And compared to invasive medicine, they're a reasonable alternative—I pay $13 a session to exercise at Suburban Hospital, which is far better than the cost, and risk, of a heart attack.
Thousands of similar groups function around the country at hospitals, clinics, churches, synagogues and community clubs. Some are professionally led, others not. Some exist exclusively on the Internet. Groups cover mental health, bereavement and addictions such as alcohol, gambling and overeating. There are groups for parents of children with learning disabilities, for amputees, diabetics, migraine sufferers and cross-dressers, to name only a few.
For me, the greatest benefit of Suburban's rehab program was the frequent monitoring by cardiac nurses and physiologists. They convinced me that I wasn't going to collapse and die on the exercise room floor. "The staff keeps a good eye on you," said a fellow rehabber, Jim Gaffney, who should know; now 72, Jim joined the program 10 years ago, after a heart attack.
Almost as important for me was the boost supplied by fellow rehabbers revving up their hearts—especially veterans like Jim who've logged years on treadmills and stationary bikes and have good health to show for it. Some of the regulars are in their 90s now.
The Cardiac Club is 15 years old, with more than 450 participants. Only about a third are women—even though heart disease is the largest killer of both women and men. Beverly Press, the program director, says some women may be too self-conscious about their appearance or even about what to wear. If they could just see us, I think. High fashion to this lot means a new T-shirt, or maybe just a clean one.
We all suffer and groan, but we also manage to laugh about our creaking joints. "There's a wonderful camaraderie," says Marilyn Lavender, who is 76 and works out three times a week. "Some of us come and sit for half an hour before we exercise. We talk. We laugh. We discuss politics. It's just delightful. Besides, I almost feel an obligation to come here."
So, now, do I. More than a year has passed since I began, and I'm enjoying even that nasty cross-trainer.
Mike Edwards, a former writer and editor at National Geographic magazine, lives in Washington.
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