THE BEGINNING OF A NIGHTMARE

                              

This entry is out of sequence. I know that.  But memories come as memories come, not in orderly chronological order.

Days before Paul’s diagnosis we both knew something was terribly wrong.  I reacted with worry and fear,  Paul with fear and denial.  Just a month before he had put aside his daily exercise regimen, explaining that the spring and summer  farm work would be exercise enough.

The grass in the yard had grown tall from the warm temperatures and the daily rain.  He started the mower and made two swaths across the front yard.  Suddenly he stopped the mower and sat at the concrete picnic bench next to the fish pond.  His breathing was rapid; his bare chest glistened from perspiration.  From the front porch I watched as he struggled to recover.  He restarted the mower, made two swaths and stopped the mower.  

“You Ok?”, I asked.

“Just out of breath.”

Just out of breath. Just out of breath. The beginning of two years of being just out of breath.