(No, not that kind of therapy.)

So I had my seventeenth yearly post transplant checkup (well really 16th, since there wasn’t one when I first got my new lungs, haha). It went well. My numbers are rock solid and perfection. “Everything’s coming up roses!”

But.

(You knew there was a but.)

As you probably know, I do not like exercise. I missed out on the genetic lottery in this sense—my brother runs marathons (Boston, New York, etc.) and coaches cross country. My sister played high school and college tennis, runs, and her husband (who is not connected to me genetically, obviously, but still) runs marathons as well, and my sister in law was a gymnast, and also runs. I am surrounded by super fit people who like to work out and are good at doing things with their bodies.

I am….not.

Now, over the this year, I’ve been working at getting better at working out because I know I need to be in better shape. At my clinic visit, my transplant coordinator said I absolutely have to be working out 5 times a week for 30 minutes. Must. Have to. Non-negotiable.

Then she said the magic thing. “Just think of it as doing your CF therapies.”

CF therapies—or “therapy” as we called it in our house—consist of nebulizer treatments and doing the vest or other postural drainage techniques (PT) to get the sticky mucus out of the lungs. This took, at minimum, 30-45 minutes, twice a day. In the evening it took longer because I did another nebulizer med, and if I was doing inhaled antibiotics, it could easily take 90 minutes to two hours. This was twice, or three times, a day. Every day.

I had never thought about exercise as being a “replacement” for daily therapy. Because honestly, therapy wasn’t fun. I mean it could be—I could watch movies and things while it was on—but I couldn’t really do homework because if I looked down the nebulizer could drip on my work or the textbook; I couldn’t read because of the vest vibrations (shaking books!). I could do some work on a computer though, and I did that more often in the early 2000s (pre-transplant). But it was a pain.

Exercise is once a day, for thirty minutes, which is way less daily time than the therapies took. It’s one and done. I don’t have to like it, but I do have to do it, the same way I did therapy.

For some reason I had never made this connection. But once it was made, it….made sense.

So I am almost a week into this and it’s been….not bad. I’m using the Peloton app, because it adds music and fun instructors, and it’s captioned (hallelujah!), and it tracks my heart rate on the screen so I don’t have to be looking at my watch all the time. (I do not have a Peloton machine. I use the machines in the complex gym—there’s no bike there, so it’s all treadmill stuff.)

Right now because I’m starting with 20 minutes on the treadmill, five times a week.

I don’t have to like it, but I do have to do it. Because I want to be here for Patty and Maddie and new baby DeArdo. That’s worth it to me. (And hello, there are Broadway themed walks, sign me up.)

So, here we go.