Those of us without air-conditioning in this unusual Ithaca heat wave are tossing fitfully throughout the night. We aim fans directly on our bodies. We open all the windows, praying for a breeze.
In the morning, we move like zombies, headachy and grumpy.
There is no point in following my usual routine.
The farmers keep farming.
The office workers go in early, looking for relief in air-conditioning, though it wasn’t designed to keep this kind of heat at bay.
The privileged, who live with air-conditioning, are afraid to leave home.
The elderly are warned about the dangers of heat stroke.
Years ago when Adrian and I lived in southern Florida, we played tennis outdoors no matter what the temperature.
Sweat dripped off us, soaked our shirts, loosened our grip on the rackets.
Our reward after an intense forty-five minutes to an hour of sweat was to don our bathing suits and jump in the pool.
That was the life.
But I am fragile now.
I imagine my body struggling to survive, its parts slowly but inexorably getting weaker.
Are these heart palpitations I’m feeling?
I take my blood pressure.
“Yes,” the machine tells me, “You are having heart palpitations.”
Last year I told my doctor that the blood pressure machine said I was having heart palpitations.
“We all do on occasion,” he said.
The heat must exaggerate mine.
Or I’m dying.
But I am dying.
I just don’t know when.
And it probably won’t be today.