Run

I bobbed on the steps into the pool and my mother held her arms out to instill confidence. I could swim. I had taught myself that summer. But I had always been a nervous kid, afraid of loud noises and shadows and my own death. My mom was extolling the benefits of swimming.

"It's the best exercise for my arthritis," she offered. This was supposed to be reassuring.

"Do I have that?!"

"No, I do. You don't."

"Then why do I need to worry about it?"

"You don't. I do. I'm sorry."

"Am I going to get it?"

Pause.

Pause.

"You could."

Since that day, and I think I was in about the second grade at that point, I worried. Every time my muscles ached, every time I felt stiff. Do I have it? Did I get it? I had already inherited a rare joint disorder from my father that necessitated casts and braces and physical therapy and surgery by the time I was six years old. I was worried. And I prized my physical ability. I rode my bike, I started martial arts. I danced. For a kid that was never supposed to walk, I did okay. My mother's RA symptoms began in her early twenties and after I made it past that time, I felt less concerned. Until she died from congestive heart failure.

I began exercising again last week. It has been a while. I walk more than most people I know, because I live in a city with no car. Going to the grocery store is a mile round-trip, carrying my loot. I have a dog who goes out three times a day. Walking to and from my nearest el stop is about the same. In a given day I'll walk several miles. But last week I started running on the elliptical, running away from two parents who died by age 63 of heart failure; from RA that WebMD tells me can be delayed or slowed by exercise; from my unknown medical history since my mother was adopted. I run.