Murder, she whimpered

My treadmill just tried to kill me.
I hadn't been on Treddy - yes, that's what I call him - in nearly 2 weeks, since I have a sick cat (Yes, I'm a cat person, but that isn't what this is about) and also because my bro, Frank, was visiting to give me a break around the house, and because I gave myself a concussion last week. Yes, I'm that graceful. Not a long story - door, dog, leash, temple, doorframe. I know.
Anyway, I hadn't been on Treddy in 12 days. I had been doing 3 miles a day, every day, for months. That may not sound like a lot, but it is when you consider just a few months back I was on a table with my chest cut open for 17.5 hours to have a valve replaced and a bypass on another. It's been a long road, and I still have a long ways to go, but this also isn't about that.
This is about Treddy. The executioner.
I don't usually walk that fast, about 4 mph, but I have a long stride, so it goes pretty smoothly. Not today. Treddy was looming in judgement every single time I glanced in his general direction, so even though I didn't really feel like it, the cat was having a little better day, so I kicked my own ass onto Treddy. 6 minutes in I heard a pathetic whimpering. It took me a bit to realize was coming from me. 12 minutes in, I started crying. My back and legs screaming for mercy, I stabbed through sweaty blurred vision in the general direction of where I swear the OFF button used to be. It had traded places with the SPEED UP button in what I can only surmise was an attempt to take my life. I was prepared to stop; Treddy sped up. Graceful me, went zooming off the back and was only saved from certain death, or at least another concussion, by landing in the garbage can. That's right. Treddy tried to kill me, then dispose of my body.
My legs are now jelly, and my blood pressure that I'm doing all this to keep lower is now anything but. I've rarely been in greater need of a bottle or 4 of wine. And if my lasix kicks in again any time in the next hour, I'll just have more laundry to do tomorrow. When I can walk again.