Thirty minutes a day on the treadmill (except Sunday, my day of rest) has been a promise I've kept to myself. Lying snuggled in bed, I've thought briefly of skipping it, then visualized my sternum chopped open, ribs spread apart, blood everywhere, for the surgeon to cut open and repair my heart--

and I get up and start walking. This morning I didn't even stop to brush my teeth first. I've never been so motivated to exercise (and take care of my health) in my life.

So either I'll be the healthiest surgical patient they've ever seen, or I'll not have surgery at all. You can guess which scenario I'd prefer.

And if I do dodge that bullet, you can bet I'll continue walking and exercising, because that threat will hang over my head for the rest of my life.

Not me. Not if I can help it.