Stranger in a strange body
It was my first day of returning to yoga, my first true "workout" post-mastectomy, and I had a plan. I would arrive at class very early. I would calmly explain to the teacher, in a mostly-empty room, that I was working with a "significant pectoral wall injury." (Ahem. That's one way to say it.) Then, I would set up my mat in the deliciously sunny back corner of the room, stretch, breathe, connect with my chi, namaste to myself, ponder the beauty of the universe, and prepare for this lovely re-entry to my active life.
That was the goal, anyway.
Instead, I stress-crastinated at home until I was very late and then almost talked myself out of going. I finally threw on my "Brave" tank top and race-walked to the gym, huffing and puffing. I careened into the room 57 seconds before the start of class, flung myself in front of the instructor, and blurted, "This is my first workout back after a mastectomy. I have to be careful about my pecs." Then I set up my mat in the last available spot approximately one inch from the door and class began before my chi knew what hit it.
The first five minutes of class were nice - it was exciting to be back in the gym and breathing exercises were going great! The problem was the remaining 55 minutes of class. You know, all the parts where we have to do more than lie on a mat and breathe. I realized at approximately minute 5, second 1 that everything felt...bad. My entire body I felt heavy and immovable, like cement. Like I'd been cryogenically frozen and was trying to move before defrosting. Like the tin man? Like I weighed 100 lbs more than I used to. Like....something unfamiliar and unpleasant.
I felt like a stranger in a strange body. And in so many ways, I am. First of all, one boob is gone. Lopped off and donated to science or the trash - frankly, I'm not really sure where severed, cancerous boobs go. (Maybe I should have asked?) In its place, I have a semi-inflated tissue expander that includes weird bumpy edges and a piece of metal. It sits under the pecs, so my chest wall feels weak and tight, and my arm feels sore down to my wrist. I'm on a new medication, which, if it's half as effective at curing cancer as it is at giving me ripping headaches and robbing me of energy, is doing a bang-up job. And, on a less-medical note, repeated biopsies and the minor issue of a lumpectomy rendered me mostly unable to run all fall. My fitness was at a low point - and that was before I lost the boob.
Anyway, I wanted to leave. I wanted to stand up and tell the instructor that this had been a mistake - that I could not, in fact, do it - I was not in fact, brave like my tank top said - and just leave. But something in me kept me on my mat. Let's not be coy - that something was pride. But something somewhat kinder told me to keep breathing, to drop into child's pose, to be patient with myself. So I tried to do those things.
The minutes ticked on, and I realized that I was getting through class. I started listening to the songs playing softly in the background, trying to let the music power me through. Towards the end of class, as it was slowly washing over me that I would survive the whole class, "Leaving Las Vegas" by Sheryl Crow came on. It was an unlikely song to strike me but it did. I feel like I am leaving a chapter of my life - a chapter of not knowing, near-constant bad news, fear and exhaustion. And Sheryl Crow herself is a breast cancer survivor. She's alive and well and not dating Lance Armstrong. We're both leaving bad chapters behind, and I'm paving the road out of dodge with bricks that can be as big as a milestone, as small as a song.