Chapter 4

January, 2006

The first sign that Don might be having health problems again was recurring back pain. After suffering with it for quite some time, he went to the doctor, and they speculated it might be soft-tissue injuries due to a car accident he'd been in.

They did an x-ray, and nothing showed up. He'd had a CT scan the year before, just as a normal precaution after the wreck, and nothing showed up on that, either. Bloodwork showed nothing seriously wrong.

The family practitioner did tell him his triglycerides were somewhat high, and Don amended his diet, reducing his pasta and sugar intake. Presumably as a result, he lost about twenty pounds. He’d never been fat to begin with, but a hundred and eighty pounds stretched over a six foot six frame was too thin.

By May, he was beginning to look alarmingly skinny. A family member pulled me aside at a Mother's Day gathering and asked, "Is Don all right? He looks so thin."

"Sure, he's fine," I said confidently. "He just went to the doctor and had bloodwork done. No problems. He's just been watching his diet."

His back continued to plague him, to the point where he couldn't do as much physical stuff as he wanted to. He began to come home from the office and sprawl on the couch all evening, instead of playing with the kids or doing yardwork. He hated not being able to do things, but his back simply bothered him too much after a day of sitting at his desk.

The doctor finally sent him to physical therapy, and he started visiting the physical therapist on a regular basis, and doing exercises. It didn't seem to help much, but he kept at it.

November, 2006

I found Don leaning on the kitchen island, gasping for breath.

He’d been somewhat short of breath for a while. He’d come up the stairs, then flop on the bed. “Man, I am getting seriously out of shape,” he’d say.

I’d frown. “You shouldn’t be having trouble getting up the stairs, you know.”

“I’m just out of shape. Not exercising enough.”

His back and ribs were still bothering him, for no reason that anyone could really determine, and he’d finally decided to quit riding our exercise bike in the evenings, both because of the pain and because it made him lose weight. So he was certain that his breathlessness was due to his poor condition.

But when he walked out to the garage to get a hammer, walked back in, and then collapsed against the kitchen island, wheezing, I leaned on the other side of the island and glared at him.

“You are going to call the doctor and get looked at. Now. I think you have pneumonia.”

“I’ll give him a call right after Thanksgiving,” he said, breathing hard.

“No. Now. Because if you don’t do it now, I’m going to worry the whole time we’re at your parents’ house. And you don’t want me to worry. Do you?”

He sighed and managed to stand up. “Fine,” he said, grumpily. “I’ll make an appointment.”

Read Chapter 5 here.