My father would have been in a coffin when I was 16 years-old had he not noticed subtle changes in his breathing and the way that he felt while running on the treadmill at the gym. My father was an avid runner, and a supreme example of one who takes care of their health. In the 1980s, for him, that meant exercising regularly by jogging around the lake, dodging goose poop between steps. It’s thanks to his good example that both my parents were successful in pushing my sister and I to swim competitively, waking up at the un-Godly hour of 4am and throwing ourselves into cold water and the stench of chlorine hovering thick over the pool.  Read More