Somewhere around 48 my body decided it no longer needed to love, honor and obey me. I’m not sure what I did to cause this betrayal but to make matters worse I can’t even divorce the turncoat.
A couple of years ago I was in great shape; going to the gym several times each week, walking and jogging through my neighborhood on a daily basis. I was loving looking so tanned and toned. That was my normal though. I’ve always been able to work on my body and have it respond as expected to my hard work. Then suddenly, my back seized up and I was walking around like an arthritic 80-year-old. No idea why. I stopped going to the gym and gave up running. Instead, I adopted yoga, walking and a very sweet chiropractor. Things improved. Slowly.
At 49 I took a vacation in Texas with a lovely man. We walked all morning every day and went wine tasting all afternoon. I came home with plantar fasciitis, the most excruciating pain radiating from my heels. I was so upset with my body and devoid of hope that for months my first thought of the day was not “will my feet hurt today?” but “HOW MUCH will my feet hurt today?” Some days it was bearable and some days it was crippling. I learned about the relief and assistance of compression socks, Aleve, and the surprise of realizing I’m more comfortable in high heels now than in flats (takes the pressure from the heels and applies it toward the toes). I also learned that my lifelong habit of being barefoot every chance I got was something that needed to change. So, I changed.
At 49.5 I went for a routine mammogram and came out with four biopsies and three separate indications of breast cancer. Much of which you can read about and know what I learned along that route.
And now at 50? I’ve just had reconstructive surgery. I was sure, even though the last two years should’ve been a wakeup call, that I would come out of it perfect and whole again, with a body healing and obeying me with this new plan. Nothing has gone to plan. And, yeah, I know, you plan, God laughs. For one, I can’t take the pain medication the doctor prescribed because it gives me the most intense brain-splitting headache. And second, now that the surgical strips have all been removed and I can take a good look at my chest it makes me want to weep. I look like a 5-year-old tried to make a patchwork quilt. Out of my skin. Or like a deranged scientist pieced together a more modern Bride of Frankenstein.
The last 10 days have been difficult. There’s been a LOT of pain. Both physical and emotional. How did I get from the offensive to the defensive? I used to live my life in a way that made sense for me; in ways that worked toward the body I wanted. And now? Now I’m living just to try to alleviate pain, thwart off new symptoms, keep from falling apart. Is this just how life is once you reach 50? This just sucks!
As you can see by the gap between blog posts, when I don’t have anything funny to say, I generally say nothing at all. I blame the Chandler Bing in me. Uncomfortable with raw emotion, quick make a joke – distract, redirect. Part of me knows I was so fortunate – not many people can say that for 48 years their body obeyed their every move. I’m a spoiled brat. I know this. I accept this. I miss this!!
But at what point do I need to accept that this isn’t where I am anymore? My body is not the same as it used to be. There’s no ‘snapping back’. I can’t think of a single Judy Blume chant that will make my chest better right now. Or my brain, for that matter.
So what do I do? When you’re someone who’s used to getting their way. In everything. All the time. And suddenly you can’t get anything, what do you do? It’s a wall I’ve never had to scale before. I was always able to figure out a way around walls, but this feels like something I can’t navigate around. It feels like something I need to sit in, soak in, go through. I just don’t know how. Sitting around feeling sorry for myself isn’t something I’m good at. Sitting around, in general, isn’t something I’m good at but it’s about all I’m allowed to do for the time being.
I decided, even before this surgery, that I would give myself the month of May to do nothing. Not answer messages. Not work on work projects. Not try to be productive in any manner. This is my month to sit, read, watch TV, nap, take long slow walks, meditate, soak up the sunshine in my backyard. Not gonna lie – it’s way harder than it sounds. I can’t take my dog when I walk because one tiny tug and that patchwork quilt falls apart. I can’t do any house or yard projects. I can’t even drive.
It's not about being bored, though I assure you I definitely am. It’s about looking forward and what I want my life to look like. It feels like the right time to stop worrying about how my body will turn out and make some choices about the person I want to become, the life I want to live. And that’s a little scary.
I don’t know where I’m headed; what choices I’ll make from here but I can feel big shifts coming and one thing’s for certain – my 50’s won’t look like the first 47 years. I may still be a spoiled brat, used to getting my way (some things even I’m not strong enough to change) but it feels like ‘my way’ is heading in a new direction. May is my month to visualize a path, or at least the next few steps, toward something new and exciting, fulfilling and, God-willing, healthy.
And if any of you have ties to Judy Blume and want to suggest she create a body-image/self-acceptance book for post-breast cancer/patchwork quilt/Bride of Frankenstein patients I’d be forever grateful.
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