There is something humbling about being in cardiac rehab.

Everyone around me is sick and it startles me and I have to remind myself that they are probably looking at me and saying the same thing. Heart disease is a shadow that walks along with me, everywhere I go.

We wonder about one another, but because of social distancing, we keep away from each other. I am not an especially social person, but social distancing in rehab sometimes feels lonely.

Today,

I haven’t spoken yet to anyone but the nurses, and I may not. I am in almost shockingly good and caring hands with Lea and Marie.

They keep an eye on me, make suggestions, remind me to keep track of my exercise, take me from one machine to another, monitor my heart, and take my blood pressure.

I rode on two stationary bikes and then on the treadmill. I felt strong when I left but crashed when I get home. I don’t need to do more than asked, I need to learn to do what I am asked, and then lower my head and say “thank you” twice.

In one sense, I am doing very well. My blood pressure is excellent, my heart rate is where it should be, I do more than I am asked to do every time.

Today I put on my earphones and listened to Taylor Swift’s new album “Folklore.” “The last great american dynasty” is my favorite song on the album and is good to bike to.

The song is the story of Rebekah, a socialite from St. Louis who bought a Mansion in Newport, R.I., along with her wealthy husband, but who was never accepted into the social set there.

They called her the maddest woman the town had ever seen, “and blew through the money on the boy sand the ballet and losing on card game bets with Dali.’

Rebekah’s husband died soon after they bought the house and everyone blamed her for the death of her husband, an heir to an oil fortune.

She had a feud with a neighbor and stole his dog and died it key lime green.

The song is based on a true story, as sometimes happens with Swift, and she bought Rebekah’s house.

It is an especially poignant and heartfelt song, and it touches me whenever I hear it.

Listening to music helps me be at ease in cardiac rehab,  a place I could not have imagined for so much of my life. My open-heart surgery was the first time I was ever in a hospital.

I didn’t really think taking care of one’s body applied to me, not as long as I can write. I can still write, thankfully and now am also taking care of my body. I have some catching up to do.

But I am also learning that the six years that have elapsed since my open heart surgery has changed my body in ways I am still learning to appreciate.

When I get home, I’m a wreck and collapse for one or two-hour nap. The sleep is very deep. I am humbled to be frail in any way. I am distressed that I can’t visit the Mansion residents or the kids at Bishop Maginn.

I feel strange when I drop Zinnia off and she vanishes inside to do the work I trained her to do but can not do with her. This is foolish, and I am grateful for the chance to have my heart polished up.

The first procedure was wonderfully successful. I walk up a hill every morning that I could not walk up without stopping just a couple of weeks ago. I am doing very well in rehab, my legs are getting stronger – this will help greatly on my bike – and my arms are protesting, as they should be.

I am learning to absorb the meaning of the word moderate. I need to stop doing more than is asked, and satisfy myself with doing what I am asked. The male ego is dangerous, to the male and to others.

Every time I leave cardiac rehab, I give thanks to the doctors and nurses who are helping my heart to heal. My next surgery is just six days away. I’ll miss a day of cardiac rehab, and the funny thing is that I will miss it and Sue and Lea and Marie too.

I feel safe there, safe enough to be moody about being there at all.

Healing is a process, not a wish or demand. It is humbling and teaches patience and perspective.