You are
Fortunate not to be Running in Heaven
by Don Drewniak
My wife,
Dolores, and I spent a week in St. Marteen
located in the Caribbean Sea in the late 1970s
during a school-vacation week. A rickety bus,
probably of 50s vintage, was waiting for us (okay,
the driver was waiting) along with two dozen
other vacationers. We were all going to the same
seaside resort.
Off we went.
If memory serves me correctly, we had traveled up
and down three steep hills and were beginning to
climb a fourth one when the bus conked out. This
was, off course, well before the appearance of
cellphones and the bus did not have a two-way
radio. Nor did it have air-conditioning. Under
bright sunshine with the outside temperature in
the low 90s, the bus was insufferable.
I waited less
than ten minutes before paying a visit to the
driver who quite fortunately spoke English.
“How far
are we from the resort?”
He informed me
than it was slightly less than four kilometers
and added that the entrance was on the left side
of the road.
I had not seen
a single vehicle pass since the time of the
breakdown and the thought of sitting in a hot,
crowded bus for what might be hours was not a
pleasant one. Fortunately, most of our belongings
were packed in suitcases. I had no carry-on items
and Dolores had a small purse and a small carry-on.
It was back to
Dolores. “Let’s go, we can run there in
twenty minutes time.”
She had been
running as much as five miles a day, so I knew it
would not be a problem. I was greeted with
silence when I addressed the rest of the
vacationers and asked if anyone wanted to jog to
the resort. We were sitting at a bar three hours
later when the rest of the guests arrived.
I went out for
a run the next morning and came across a runner
from the U.S. who was in his second week at the
resort. We ended up running nine-to-ten miles
together. Add to that ten-to-fourteen miles each
of the next four days.
Dolores and I
returned home early evening on a Sunday night. I
woke up the next morning and headed for the
shower. Finished with washing, I stepped out of
the shower and was overcome with a wave of
dizziness and nausea. The next thing I remember
was being carried out on a stretcher into an
ambulance.
Dolores had
called the local volunteer fire chief who also
oversaw the town’s ambulance service. There
was a small sea of volunteers on our front lawn
within minutes. As I was being wheeled out of the
house, the fire chief whispered to her, “From
my experience, it’s either a cerebral
hemorrhage or mononucleosis.” He might as
well have hit her over the head with a Rogers
Hornsby 50-ounce baseball bat.
Hornsby, who
played in the major leagues from 1915 to 1937,
was one of baseball's greatest players. His
lifetime batting average of .358 ranks second to
Ty Cobb’s .366. He holds the modern era
— 1901 to date — single season batting
record with an amazing .424 average. As a sixteen-year
old, he wanted to play baseball so badly that he
wore a wig, and pretended to be a woman in order
to barnstorm with the Boston Bloomer Girls.
I wasn’t
aware of much during the drive on the way to a
local hospital beyond that my blood pressure was
“dangerously low.”
Once in the
hospital, the doctor, who was more than likely in
his sixties, was waiting for me in the emergency
room. A nurse hooked me up to an IV as he
examined me and had several tests administered.
He also queried me about my activities during the
previous few days before leaving the room.
He returned
within forty-five minutes holding a drinking cup.
“Drink this,” he said with a Cheshire
Cat grin.
By this time,
my thinking ability had returned. “What is
it?”
“What you
should have been drinking during your vacation,
orange juice. This and other liquids and foods
that contain high levels of potassium. You are
fortunate you are not running in heaven.”
He then
proceeded to detail the role of potassium in the
human body and concluded by saying, “Your
wife is waiting to see you. And, yes, she brought
you clothing. You’ll be discharged in two
hours. Have her buy some bananas and orange juice
on your way home. Also, if you are going to
continue to run high mileage, research the other
foods that are rich in potassium.”
I thanked him
several times.
CB radios
peaked in popularity in the mid-1970s and were
still in vogue in the rural area of Massachusetts
in which I both lived and taught school. A rumor
soon began to spread via CB’s that I had
died. There were more than a few students who
were quite disappointed when I returned to
teaching two days later.
From then on
until I retired from running in 2005, I was
careful to monitor my potassium intake as too
much can be as dangerous as too little.
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