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I started taking my cane into the gym with me last month. The decision was really a non-brainer, but it’s not one that I took lightly, because I’ve learned that when you let go of an ability, it’s hard to get it back. The cane goes with me now, because my legs become more fatigued more quickly than they once did, and when that happens, my back and hips seem to seize up. Twice recently, my legs simply refused to move during my regular exercise routine, and I had to ask one of my gym friends to help me walk to a place where I could sit down and regroup. That was humbling, but it seemed like the less humbling option, when compared to the very real possibility of falling on the floor and injuring myself. I felt this coming on for the past year, and had even adjusted my routine to limit my steps between stations, but I resisted using the cane. Unlike my slow acceptance of a wheelchair, my resistance to the cane wasn’t driven by foolish pride. It’s not like my cane suddenly alerts those around me that I have a handicap; most are amazed that I’m able to walk at all. No, I left my cane in the truck for the past few years, because I knew that when I started using it routinely, I was going to have a difficult time not relying on it. Many of us think that we’re going to sail through life doing the things that we want in the ways that we have always done them. Few are so lucky. As we age, most of us will experience a progression of lost ability. The losses usually don’t happen overnight, and are sometimes so gradual that we don’t even realize that they are happening. First, we’ll notice increasing difficulty, which leads to grumbling about getting older. Eventually, we’ll enjoy our favorite activities less frequently, until one day when we unceremoniously stop doing them altogether. Golf was that way for me. I enjoyed nearly twenty years on the course, starting at age 12 with my grandfather and a set of second-hand clubs. A couple of years later, I found myself on the high school varsity team, competing on various Central Nebraska courses. I wasn’t very good, but I enjoyed competing and being on a team with my friends, something that I didn’t have a lot of opportunity to do. Years later, in a stroke of luck, my unremarkable high school golf experience earned me the opportunity to coach golf at the high school that hired me to teach right out of college. It was then that I embraced the sport and even dreamed of teaching my own children how to golf. That never happened. Instead, my handicap eventually made it nearly impossible to enjoy time on the course. That frustration culminated with me abandoning (half-way through) the last round I would ever play. It's now been more than twenty years since that final round of golf, but I remember it like it was yesterday. When I put the clubs away that day, I didn’t know that it was the final time. I figured that I would try again next season, and it would be better. Next season never came. The memory of that experience was with me during my first week in the gym with my cane. It’s a new reality with which I have gradually grown more comfortable. Instead of obsessing about my fading abilities, I can focus on exercising safely while holding on to what I can still do. Though the cane reminds me that things are different, I’m thankful that I’m still able to exercise. I share this experience not looking for sympathy, but rather hoping that it will help you appreciate what you can do and that you do it to its fullest while you still can. If you’re fortunate enough to still enjoy participating in a sport, don’t stop until you have to. If it has been a while since you have gone on a walk, don’t wait. You don’t know when going for a walk will no longer be an option. The same with travel. Do it now, while you can still enjoy it. Don’t put off the things that require a healthy body, because that can quickly disappear. Life is precious, and our bodies will eventually make us realize that. Don’t wait for that moment. Take the initiative now to capitalize on all that you can do while you still can do it.

Recently, I was blessed with the opportunity to discuss the topic of fairness with two older men who have suddenly come face-to-face life’s occasionally unfair nature. Both are in their mid seventies, and each is living a retirement that is not what he prepared for, imagined or seemingly deserved. Because both had worked hard and saved responsibly for their retirement, money isn’t an issue for them. Similarly, both had been physically active, exercised regularly and applied the same discipline to their bodies as they did to their retirement savings. One had even run several marathons! Unfortunately, those efforts didn’t prevent them from being stricken with neurological disorders that severely impact their mobility and ability to perform simple daily tasks. Neither did anything to induce their physical struggles. In fact, they did everything they could to enjoy physical health well into their later years; yet, that was taken from them. It’s like obeying the speed limit, but getting a ticket, when everyone else speeds past you. It just isn’t fair. Fairness is something we all expect, but don’t always get. Sure, a lucky break or two is welcome, but we don’t expect luck. We do expect fairness, and it stings when it is taken from us. Unfortunately, when this happens, there is little that we can do about it. When both of these guys retired, because their physical abilities far exceeded those of their peers, their initial retirement years went almost exactly like they had planned. They continued to travel, golf and exercise regularly, never envisioning what was about to happen. Why would they? They had sacrificed, and had earned the lifestyle that they were enjoying. As is my nature, after listening to their struggles, I tried to paint silver linings in the clouds that hung over their heads, and encouraged them to look at the bright side of things. Both told me that they admired how I was able to stay positive in the face of adversity, but that they weren’t there yet. They haven’t yet been able to give up on fairness. Living with significant physical challenges for more than 50 years has taught me that it’s futile to fret over fairness. Put simply, we don’t get to decide what we deserve. We can live perfect lives, follow all the rules and check off all the boxes of virtue, and bad things can still happen. What we do get to decide are our attitudes and how we approach our challenges when bad things happen. We also need to realize that the energy that we spend fretting over fairness is better directed toward improving our situations. The US Navy SEALs know this, and incorporate it into their training. In his New York Times bestseller, “Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10,” retired Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell recounts an experience in his SEAL “Hell Week” when one of the trainers randomly selected a trainee and completely trashed the trainee’s quarters when he was out training. This poor trainee had experienced more than 20 straight hours of grueling physical tests, and another 20-plus hours awaited after a couple of hours of sleep. Instead of sleep that night, the trainee had to restore order to his room, though its trashed condition was no fault of his own, before inspection in just two short hours. Imagine the injustice he must have felt. A mentally weak person, under such extreme physical and mental exhaustion, and experiencing such extreme injustice, would have lashed out or simply collapsed. A SEAL can’t do that. If someone makes a terrible mistake on a mission or the enemy foils a near-perfect plan, a SEAL can’t spend time and mental resources being angry at the injustice and feeling sorry for himself. Doing so would get him, and likely others, killed.  Likewise, when things are tough for us, and we are angry because fairness has turned its back on us, we need to summon whatever mental toughness we have in order to resist the urge to feel sorry for ourselves. Only when we quit fretting over fairness can we focus on improving our situations.