It was almost 2 and a half years ago. I had gone out to mow the grass, a mindless task that I actually enjoyed, for that very reason. Normally no big deal, but this time when I finished it was all I could do to drag myself inside and collapse on the couch. I was totally exhausted and out of breath. Fortunately I had just scheduled a complete physical at my doctors. Like a lot of men my age, Tim Russert's death was a wake up call.
During the physical I told the doctor about what happened mowing the grass. He scheduled a pulmonary function test. Sitting in a box like a telephone booth trying to breath out gasps of air, while not painful or embarrassing like some other tests, isn't much fun. Especially when the tech keeps asking questions like, "Does the patient have any allergies?" or "Did the patient ever spend much time on a farm?". I have a name, I don't go by 'the patient'. Not that he cared.
About a week later the doctor called and said my lung function was decreased and I needed to see a pulmonologist. And the fun began.
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