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As soon as my son Daniel, who was diagnosed with Down Syndrome, joined our family as our third child, his heart became the focus of our doctors. Knowing that many children with Down Syndrome are born with defects in the heart chambers, the doctors painstakingly took him through numerous tests to determine if a problem existed.  Daniel was not an exception.  Our hearts heavy but hopeful for the best, my wife and I scheduled the surgery designed to patch the holes.  As a former wrestler and football player, I'm accustomed to taking on challenges head on, but I knew that to have a child go through open-heart surgery at five months would be an emotional event, its outcome life-changing.  

When so many aspects of my life were in chaos and seemingly out of my hands, I began to concentrate on elements in my life that I could control. After some introspection I came to the realization that I was probably headed for heart problems myself.  I was the heaviest I had ever been, packing 215 pounds on a 5’ 7” frame.  Even the thought of any meaningful exercise made me shudder.  I would squeeze any health-conscious thought to the bottom of my priority list (if it even made the list).   However, after a while the fear of my kids having to grow up without a father and my wife having to raise these three children by herself began to slowly burn a hole in my conscience.  

It's not that I hadn't thought about my condition before this.  I attacked the stairs from time to time instead of the elevator -- the stairs usually won.  After two or three flights I was working on catching my breath; after four flights I needed the oxygen masks to drop from the ceiling.  When I finished wrestling or playing football with my kids, Pain and Soreness, like two smirking athletic trainers, would gingerly escort me off the playing field to the medicine cabinet. Angry at myself, I knew that I had allowed myself to not only lose a healthy lifestyle -- I needed a compass and a map to find it.  What I wanted, no, what I needed was to get in shape to enjoy an active and fulfilling life.

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One evening as I was playing with my youngsters, I playfully bench pressed Adam ten times.  He loved it.  Ellen, not wanting to be left out, began clamoring for her turn, so I obliged.  That evening I went through the lifting routine my college partners and I used to do, using my children as the “live” free weights.  I got an unbelievable workout, and the kids didn’t want to stop. Even Daniel, who came through his surgery with all flags flying, loved to watch his siblings and Dad “play.” As soon as he showed an interest in participating, he became a part of the fun.  It started to become a nightly agreement with my children: they could play with Dad while he got a workout.  We started calling it DADsercise.