My grandmother, like many others, I imagine, would often start off a sentence with “If I had a nickel…” It was usually followed by a lament or a wish: “If I had a nickel for every one of your dirty socks I have picked up around this house.” I often think of her when someone asks me: “How did you get into writing about wine?” Not because she was a big wine drinker; in fact, I am pretty sure she never consumed even a single drop of fermented wine juice in her life. Rather, I am asked the question all the time, and if I had a nickel…

Usually, I respond with a stock answer about leading bike trips in Europe, the importance of wine in European culture, always loved to write, blah, blah, blah. But when I have a moment of reflection, a moment to really think about why I come to this spot and spew out a few words several times a week, I come back to the date, March 25, 2011.

Fifteen years ago, on that Friday, I was worried about three things and only three things: I had to teach a Spinning class in the morning, my beloved Buckeyes were a #1 seed and playing in the Sweet Sixteen, and my older son would be turning eight the following day and we were hosting a sleepover party for twelve of his friends Saturday night.

That was pretty much it.

Well, a funny thing happened in my Spin class; I couldn’t do it. I was physically there and on time, but I could not even muster enough energy to get through the warm up. A bit of context. I had been a competitive cyclist for a couple of decades at that point. I had been a certified Spinning instructor for at least a dozen years. I had led bike trips in Europe for at least as long and had ridden a bike countless times after having had a little (or a lot) too much to drink the night before.

Over the years, I had ridden my bike when it was 5° outside, in a blizzard, in a driving rainstorm, when it was a over 100°, up Alps, up Pyrénées, through deserts and after desserts. I could ride a bike.

But not that day. Nope. Even the most pedestrian pushing of the pedals was a chore–not even a chore, it was impossible. Something was wrong, and I knew it.

I hobbled home and found my wife, who was getting ready to leave for the hospital (she is a pediatric oncologist) and, after I told her about my “Spin class”, she gave me a bit of a once over and stated I should stay home from work (I worked at the School District of Philadelphia at the time). She was worried that I had the flu, or worse, pneumonia.

As the day progressed, it was clear that there was a problem; climbing the stairs was next to impossible, I was always out of breath. When my wife returned from work, we headed to the emergency room. Even though my wife was a physician, I had been to the hospital exactly twice that I could remember: for the births of my two sons. That’s it. But here I was, waiting (for what seemed like forever) in one of the busier emergency rooms in the city of Philadelphia, wondering what the heck was going on.

We were convinced (well, my wife was) that it was pneumonia or something similar (what those might be, I have no clue; I am not that kind of doctor), which sounded scary, I guess, but I was much more worried about the game as tipoff for the Ohio State-Kentucky game was imminent.

Once we finally saw a doctor, and after a bunch of tests, we discovered it was a bit more serious than the flu or pneumonia; I had had a pulmonary embolism (PE). For those of you that don’t know, a PE is basically a blood clot in in the pulmonary arteries, blocking access to the lungs. And the doctor added that not only were both of my lungs blocked, but all four points (entrance to and exit from the lungs) were at least 95% blocked.

Then he said it.

“Honestly? I am amazed you’re not dead. You are lucky to be alive.”

Now, of course, I had heard those words before; my wife likes to watch medical dramas on T.V., but never were those words directed at me.

And it was chilling.

From that point on, in many ways, my life changed. Those words stuck like to me like a tattoo: “You are lucky to be alive.”

And I have tried to live my life like that since. I would soon quit my job (it was horrible), focus more on my health and my family, and start living more. Now, I am no poster child for “living life to the fullest” but I knew that I needed to change.

Eventually, thanks to a lot of introspection and incredible support from my wife, I decided to start this little blog and pursue a couple of my passions. And every March 25th, I try to have a little reset, remember that our time here is limited, and that we need to enjoy it while we can. Eat good food, drink good wine, surround yourself with people who don’t take life too seriously, but embrace living. I don’t always succeed, but that is always the goal.

Oh, and by the way, my Buckeyes ended up losing that night, but in countless ways, I certainly won.