I'm 36, Fit, and Don't Smoke. Of Course I Had a Stroke

Mickey Mantle once famously quipped "If I had known I was gonna live this long, I would've taken better care of myself." I don't know how old ole' Mick was when he said that, but I bet dollars to doughnuts that he was on the far side of forty. He sure as shit wasn't too young to be president of the United States like I was when I found out I had a goddamn heart condition. And I wasn't even a Triple Crown winner, a member of the Yankees, or had ever received a blow job from a fan before a game (Google it).

Six weeks ago, I was coming out of the shower and noticed a bit of blurry vision in my right eye, which I chalked up to dry contact lenses. The next morning, I decided to visit the ole' neighborhood emergency room to find some relief from my chest tightness and shortness of breath. A few vital checks and one CAT scan later, I was told by the attending physician, a man probably my age, tell me, "So...you had a stroke."

"Hmm," I exhaled, in my typical cavalier manner.

"Yeah." His response implied that mine didn't carry the usual gravitas that tends to come with being told you've suffered a stroke, let alone at my age.

My mother choked up, then I did too because of her getting upset. She left the room to compose herself, and I gave an exhale that would've flattened the Black Forest in Germany.

I then spent six days in the hospital, pissing in bottles and eating hospital food, which I must say, has improved to the point where stand up comedians can finally stop basing their shitty routines on it and move onto something new.

I then spent the next three weeks out of work, going to doctor's appointments and staying at my mother's to recover, which consisted of me depleting northeast Florida's supply of diet ginger ale and watching a constant cycle of Archer, Dr. Phil, Family Guy, American Dad, Bob's Burgers, Hoarders, My 600-lb Life, Maury Povich, and the occasional yet much-sought after marathon of Ancient Aliens. I swear, there's something about that Giorgio Tsoukalos and his amazing hair.

Not Pictured: ALIENS

Fast forward to today, and I've now been back at work for about six weeks, and not a day goes by where someone doesn't ask me how I'm feeling or talk to me like I'm a puppy or a slow toddler.

I go to cardiac rehab three times a week at seven in the morning at a hospital near my apartment. I'm the youngest one there by at least twenty years. I get odd stares and sideways glances thrown my way every time I'm there that have a, "What the fuck is this guy doing here?" look to them, but I get it. I smile back at them. Older people tend to like me, and I tend to like them. We have a lot in common, and I like hearing their stories. A lot of times, they were in the service and have visited the places I have too as an army brat, so we bond over that.

It's a good feeling, and I think they realize that I know what they're up against and can relate to what they've gone through. They understand, like I do, that you can't outrun your genes and that life's unfair sometimes. They also know that getting better takes time, and it takes work, and that there's a finite amount of time we're all given, whether we live to be 40. Or 140. Or 76. Or 36.

They also know that we hope to outlive our fathers, especially if he didn't make it past fifty, and never saw his son finish college, and become the man who hopefully would've made him proud to carry on his name well into his eighties.

Hopefully.