Counting by 7s

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

I have charted out a one-mile loop that travels eight blocks south of the Gardens of Glenwood. It then turns three blocks west. Followed by eight blocks north. And finally three blocks east. On the map, it does not look like much. I’m lucky to still be alive. After two blocks on the course, I get a pain in my left side that feels as if a knife has been implanted just below rib 7 (individual ribs do not have names, and are only referred to as one through twelve, left side, right side). My legs—or more specifically, my calves—tingle, and somehow I have lost all of my strength. My ankles freeze up. The air around me turns thick. I experience so many different health conditions—rapid heart rate, elevated blood pressure, dry mouth, pulmonary shock, muscle spasm—that it is impossible for me to even chronicle the degree of body breakdown. The shocking truth is that I cannot even continuously jog eight blocks south (which was the first segment of the run). At the sixth block I stumble. I feel that I might lose consciousness (and there is no metal elephant coffee table to break my fall). Mai places her hand on my arm and says: “Take it easy. Just breathe, Willow.” I know it sounds crazy, but as I work to control my wheezing breathing pattern, something happens. I go from light-headed to feeling grateful for the gift of life. It must be some kind of blood pressure phenomenon. Dell and Mai walk with me back to the Gardens of Glenwood. I want one of them to tell me that I’ll get bette...