You\u2019re our last hope,\u201d the marine\u2019s mother told me. \u201cIf he can\u2019t do this, I\u2019m afraid he\u2019ll\u2026\u201d Her voice trailed off, but I knew what she feared.<\/p>\n
At 23, her son had suffered a spinal injury in combat, leaving the use of his arms and legs extremely limited. She\u2019d brought him here, to the Lakeshore Foundation rehabilitation center in Birmingham, Alabama, in hopes of finding some physical outlet. Could I teach him to swim? \u201cHe\u2019s terrified he\u2019ll drown,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
She introduced me to him. His core body was still strong, but I saw the fear in his eyes. I knew it wasn\u2019t the water he was most afraid of. It was moving on to a different kind of life than he\u2019d imagined.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll have to trust me,\u201d I said. \u201cCan you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded, uncertainly. I helped him into the water, faceup, and put my arms underneath him. His body trembled. \u201cDon\u2019t let go of me!\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m right here. Take a deep breath. All you need to do to float is relax.\u201d<\/p>\n
Slowly his body stopped shaking and his breathing normalized. \u201cI\u2019m going to let go,\u201d I said. I pulled my hands away. He was floating. He looked at me, his eyes filled with wonder. On the pool deck, his mother was crying.<\/p>\n
I was in high school when i knew I wanted to be a doctor<\/a>. Not just any physician. I was going to be a hand surgeon, specializing in microsurgery and reconstruction. The work was demanding, intense. Both my parents were driven, but it was my mother who inspired me most. She\u2019d been a chemist, working for rocket pioneer Wernher Von Braun, then later for the U.S. Department of Defense. She taught me that God had a plan for my life but that nothing got handed to us. \u201cHe gives us talents, but what we do with them is up to us\u201d was how she put it. What I heard was: You need to work your tail off. Always.<\/p>\n Skip ahead twenty years, to 1993. I had my own practice in Birmingham. On a typical day, I spent 10 to 12 hours in the operating suite, peering through a pair of surgical loupes, reconnecting veins, nerves and tissues, my every movement requiring absolute care and precision. The board that listed that day\u2019s patients was filled to overflowing, people coming from hundreds of miles to see me. It was everything I\u2019d ever dreamed of and prayed for. I was helping people, giving them a second chance at life. This was what I was meant to do.<\/p>\n One time, I\u2019d operated for 24 hours straight, reattaching a man\u2019s hand. I\u2019d reattached fingers so that you\u2019d barely know they\u2019d been severed. Taken a toe and transformed it into a working thumb. Teamed with another reconstructive surgeon to remove a forearm bone and give a man with cancer of the mouth a new jaw. Helped hundreds of people with cartilage tears and carpal tunnel damage. On top of all that, I was on call at the hospital. 24\/7. Nearly every day. I didn\u2019t mind. I couldn\u2019t imagine doing anything else. All I wanted was to work, work, work. Yet work energized me so much, I couldn\u2019t wind down.<\/p>\n So I went running, three or four miles, twice a day. Feeling that burn, sweat pouring off me, heart pounding, was the closest thing to relaxation I could find. I loved knowing I was in shape. Those early-morning runs were when I felt closest to God. There were days, though, when even running didn\u2019t do it for me\u2014I was so wound up.<\/p>\n That\u2019s when I went roaring down Alabama\u2019s winding back roads on my Suzuki Boulevard. In winter, I\u2019d go skiing. (Yes, there\u2019s skiing in the South.) Hurtling down a double black diamond slope one Saturday, going way faster than I should have been, I wiped out and busted my knee. \u201cNo running,\u201d my doctor said. \u201cDon\u2019t even think about it for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n A few weeks later, I slipped into the water at the YWCA, feeling the chill against my legs. I hadn\u2019t swum since I was a kid. But I had to do something. I was going crazy not running. I put my head into the water and made it okay across the pool, but coming back I couldn\u2019t get enough air, my legs felt like lead, my strokes uneven and flailing. I felt as if I were going to drown. I reached for the side of the pool. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man watching me.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you mind if I show you a few things?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n Patiently, he demonstrated how to breathe, how to extend my reach, how to kick. He was East German. Had been a swim coach over there. Lucky me! Soon I was swimming a mile. Easily.<\/p>\n I was at my Thursday spin class one evening in 2001. In my late 40s, I was on top of the world. My practice was booming. And I was in the best shape of my life, a three-sport athlete: running, swimming and biking. Competing in triathlons all over the Southeast, finishing near the top of my age class. I\u2019d even started coaching a group of rank amateurs on how to train for a triathlon.<\/p>\n Now in class, I was pumping hard. And I got the strangest sensation, like fingers pressing on my throat. The pressure grew the harder I pedaled. I\u2019m just tired, <\/em>I thought. I slowed my pace and didn\u2019t worry about it.<\/p>\n Friday, I spent eight hours working in the OR, no problem. At the end of the day, I told a doctor friend about the odd feeling I\u2019d had. \u201cYou\u2019d better get that checked out,\u201d she said. \u201cLike tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n To ease her mind, I called a former ER doc in private practice. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you come over?\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ll do a stress test.\u201d<\/p>\n I had my shorts and shoes in the car. At least I\u2019ll get in a run, <\/em>I thought. On the treadmill, I\u2019d run for only 30 seconds or so when the doctor said, \u201cYou should quit.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I\u2019m good,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cSherry, stop!\u201d he said. \u201cNow!\u201d<\/p>\n I stepped off, and he showed me the test results. \u201cYou\u2019re looking at a massive heart attack<\/a>,\u201d he said, tapping the steep dip in the graph line. \u201cYou need an arteriogram immediately.\u201d<\/p>\n No. Not possible. Not me. But the arteriogram (an X-ray of the blood vessels) confirmed the stress test results. \u201cYou have a 99 percent blockage of one of your arteries,\u201d the doctor said. \u201cIf you weren\u2019t in such great shape, you\u2019d be dead.\u201d<\/p>\n I took it in stride. I had a stent inserted and, within weeks, was training for a triathlon. But my problems were only beginning. In the next four years, I had two bypass surgeries. I slipped on some ice and ruptured a disc. A bike accident ruptured it again. Then, a major systemic infection. When I wasn\u2019t hospitalized, I was still working 10 to 12 hours a day. Work had to continue, especially now.<\/p>\n 2005. My cardiologist called me into his office. \u201cWe\u2019ve had a meeting,\u201d he said. \u201cAll of your doctors. We\u2019re telling you to retire. You can\u2019t keep going like this.\u201d<\/p>\n I opened my mouth to protest. \u201cSherry!\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019ve gotten three or four lives out of your heart. Enough already. You\u2019ve got to slow down. We\u2019re not giving you a choice.\u201d<\/p>\n I was in shock. I was only 51. Everything I\u2019d worked so hard for\u2014my career, my athleticism, my entire identity\u2014was being taken from me. One day, to clear my head, I took my Suzuki for a ride. Going too fast over a ridge, I totaled the bike and broke my wrist. I set it myself, with the help of a doctor friend. But it felt as if I\u2019d broken way more than a bone and I had no idea how to fix it. Even my prayers seemed broken, too weak to even reach God.<\/p>\n I was home, doing nothing, fighting depression, when the phone rang. It was Jill Collins, a friend of mine and the athletic director at the Lakeshore Foundation, a facility renowned for its work with people with disabilities. \u201cI need someone to coach my top swimmers<\/a>,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat do you say?\u201d<\/p>\n I hesitated. The most I\u2019d done was teach rank amateurs to swim in a lake. These were Paralympian-level athletes Jill was talking about. They needed someone with serious coaching cred. \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019m right for the job,\u201d I said. Silence. \u201cWe\u2019ve got a meet in four weeks,\u201d Jill finally replied. \u201cYou\u2019ll figure it out. It\u2019s not like you\u2019re doing anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n Boom. <\/em>That hit home. There were four of them\u2014one legally blind, another with no use of her arms or legs. One with muscular dystrophy. The last with cerebral palsy. That first day, I watched as they slowly, awkwardly, made their way to the water. And then, it was as if they\u2019d been transformed. They flew across the pool.<\/p>\n These were people who had lost way more than I had. And yet nothing was holding them back. They didn\u2019t need me to work on their mechanics. But I could be an encouraging presence, could help with their mental game, things I\u2019d once excelled at. Even then, I knew I\u2019d be learning more than teaching. That I would finally be able to move on.<\/p>\n Now I was thrilled to see the accomplishment of the young marine. Minutes later, I showed him how to flip over, how he could move himself through the water. We worked for another hour. He didn\u2019t want to get out of the pool.<\/p>\n Watching him and his mother leave, I couldn\u2019t help thinking how life had brought me here to this moment. I wasn\u2019t doing what I\u2019d thought I\u2019d be doing, but there was no doubt that I was where I was meant to be, still helping people, giving them a second life. Using the skills I\u2019d been blessed with. I took a deep breath. I relaxed.<\/p>\n 5 Easy Ways to Be Physically Active at Any Age<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n