Written Jun 24, 2025
Reviewed 7/7
Hello Dear Readers,
Today’s agenda was brought to you by the letters M (for mowing), B (for bloodwork), and S (for sweat. So. Much. Sweat).
It was a race against the sun this morning—me versus the jungle formerly known as our lawn. I usually take my time trimming the terrain, but today, I had a hard deadline: a date with a phlebotomist. Nothing says “productive morning” quite like pushing an electric mower up a steep hill, then heading off to donate a vial or five of blood.
Let’s rewind a bit. My kidneys and I have a bit of a complicated history. Back in 2015, my function had dipped so low that I made the transplant list. Dramatic, I know. But through some dietary ninja moves, medication management, and sheer stubbornness, I climbed back up to stage 3. Some days I flirt with stage 4 (I like to keep my nephrologist on their toes). Hence the quarterly blood draws—my body’s version of a quarterly report card, minus the spreadsheets.
Exercise has become non-negotiable for me. Not just to stay fit, but to keep my kidneys pumping (or filtering?) as best they can. Ever since my stroke, I’ve realized that motion isn’t just medicine—it’s mission-critical.
Until 2022, my wife was the queen of the lawn. She’d spend hours on weekends battling the grass while working full-time during the week. Eventually, I took over. Now I handle both cooking and mowing—basically, I’m evolving into a domestic ninja with a touch of yard warrior.
Our lawn, by the way, is no gentle meadow. It’s steep enough to make you question your life choices mid-mow. Even with our electric mower, I need two battery swaps—and usually still don’t finish it all in one go. Today, I gave myself three hours and managed to tame the front yard and half of one side before calling it quits. Thursday, the saga continues.
I was drenched in sweat by the end, having chugged a full liter of water like it was my sidekick. Honestly, I might need a medal. Or at least a Popsicle.
On a brighter (and cooler) note, we’ve gone full nerd and ordered a fancy weather station! It has a remote sensor that sits in our bedroom, while the main display lives in my office. Now I can spy on the upstairs temperature without even standing up. Efficiency, thy name is gadget.
The new system should help us decide when to fling open the windows or turn on the fan, because let’s be real—when your body doesn’t regulate heat so well post-stroke, indoor climate control is a tactical operation.