Coming Out of Hibernation

Coming Out of Hibernation

Over the past few months, Kim and I have gotten into the practice of regularly measuring our temperature, pulse and oxygenation levels in search of any signs of the Coronavirus. This started by watching video clips of Chinese state agents pointing temperature guns at the foreheads of transiting passengers to determine risk of infection. This predated the thought that asymptomatic transmission was a major concern and seemed like a sensible, though rough, test for potentially infectious disease spreaders. It was brother-in-law Jeff who wagged his finger at us and suggested that what we really needed to do was to get an oximeter to measure our oxygen uptake. Kim bought both a temperature gun and a pulse oximeter that fits over a finger and measures both pulse and level of oxygen in the blood (supposedly through light metering through the skin to measure platelet levels). We then got in the habit of most nights lying in bed while Kim measures temperature on the exposed inner wrist area and places the pulse oximeter on my non-wagging index finger. The preferred levels are under 98.6 degrees F, 60-70 beats per minute and 90%+ oxygen saturation. My friend Steve, who has undergone a good deal of surgery in the past few years told me that its best to take several hyperventilating breaths before using the oximeter, presumably to get a true reading (like coughing before talking). I will presume that is less a tricking of the mechanism and more a simple reboot of the circulatory system.

The topic of interest between Kim and me has been that my numbers are regularly 97.4 degrees F, 55 beats per minute and 97% oxygen saturation. This compares to Kim at something like 98 degrees F, 75 beats per minute and 93% oxygen saturation. Now, both readings are fine by the standards we are led to believe are “normal and healthy” but why do I, who outweighs Kim by a considerable amount (a good 50%) show such low numbers. We jokingly default to my 23 And Me indication that I am genetically inclined to being a “performance athlete”, but anyone who looks at me is going to find that more a source of humor than a source of serious medical assessment. Nevertheless, here I am at 66 years, going strong for the moment with no apparent ailments (despite supposedly silent killers like Hypertension, Type 2 Diabetes, Stroke and Congestive Heart Failure all lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce) and a metabolism that likes to slowly meander down the path of life, COVID or no.

While these moments of self-aggrandizement are often followed by the Madison Avenue Bus scoring a direct hit to broadside, I will assume that away for the moment and seek another explanation for my anomalous good metabolic numbers. Many people over the years have referred to me as being like a bear. It’s an obvious simile for me given my size and occasional demeanor. Kim has always called me the endearing “Honey Bear”, which goes further to suggest that I am both kindly and of notable sweet tooth. But perhaps we have missed that my most analogous trait to my Ursidae or Caniform behavior is that I am able to modulate my metabolism to accommodate a state of hibernation. In hibernation, endotherms (warm-blooded mammals) depress their metabolism by suspending animation and basically going to sleep for up to 100 days. They bring their bodily functions down to conserve energy, usually during the winter months, and basically sleep through a period of slackness in the food supply. Hence, when Yogi Bear and BooBoo awake after a long winter’s nap, they immediately set out to find the “pic-a-nic” baskets. Along with my lower metabolic rate and my slow-moving semi-hibernating state these days (I don’t so much sleep as do more sedentary activities like read, write and watch), I do actually eat far less than I used to and far less than you would probably believe.

My bariatric surgery of fourteen years ago has left me with limited intake capacity at any sitting and has also caused me to view food very differently. I have never been a lover of fine food, but now I tend much more to tolerating small amounts of highly preferred food. Last night we were served some hors’d’oeuvres of grilled onions and maple bacon on cream cheese spread on mini bagel chips. That may be the perfect food by my new standards. It is small, savory, tasty and can be eaten slowly enough to not jam up my artificial hiatal valve. Despite what I’m sure everyone realizes is not a low-calorie diet, I have lost almost fifteen pounds in the past several months. This has been a gradual downward drift that feels very natural and logical as I recount my daily intake and realize that in absolute amounts it is quite meager. I’m able to do it because few things appeal to me the way those hors ‘oeuvres did last night. I rarely finish a meal any more and have lost my lifetime membership to the clean plate club.

What I cannot fully appreciate yet is how much of this sedentary behavior is simply my natural tendency (I always leaned towards the lazier side), the result of my newfound “retirement”, the languor and inertia brought about by the California sunshine (I see Cecil lazing in the sun whenever he can), or perhaps the direct impact of the Coronavirus pandemic lockdown. I could write an essay (and probably have already) on any one of those effects. So the thought that I might be in a semi-hybernative state is a distinct possibility. But it is now mid-June and the bears are all out of their dens and foraging for food. I have to ask myself, am I coming out of hibernation any time soon?

The answer is yes. I actually set out to wash both cars and both motorcycles yesterday. I can afford to take these vehicles to a car wash easily enough, but this seemed like a worthwhile sunny day activity and I did it working up a bit of a sweat. Unfortunately, I was felled by incompetence in that I tried to use the power washer despite knowing better. I did not hurt the cars or bikes so much as myself. I just about removed a finger by letting it get in the way of the power spray and then almost popped a gasket off a pressurized fitting and impaling myself with it. Death-by-Power-Washer is not a good way to go. I also managed to leave a nice water-spotted film of soap all over the cars as the drying sun made trying to do two cars at once a fools errand. So, what is a problem-solver to do, but buy two $9.99 unlimited memberships to the new local car wash and get the job done right. As best I can tell, the car wash is prepared to give me free lifetime washes in the hopes that I will be swayed into more detailing purchases over time. Ha, they don’t realize that I have my own home power vacuum and air compressor now to do any interior detailing needed (assuming I don’t remove a finger with one of those implements as well). But that’s not all.

We are also planning our first real post-COVID (despite the apparent resurgence of COVID infections in states like California) trip by renting that Sprinter Van for a three-day jaunt up to the KOA at Santa Paula near Ojai. We are going to see Kim’s sister Sharon and the ever-affable Woo, her husband, but we are also going to test our mini-house stamina and to get ourselves out of Coronavirus hibernation. It’s time. I’m ready. I will go outside and do jumping-jacks or something today to prepare myself. Right now I am going to the kitchen to eat some cheesy eggs and bacon with toast to get my metabolism off to the races.