Reflections
On my mat, again.
I promised my next blog entry would be about remission and what survivorship was like those first few months (spoiler alert: it was HARD) — but this struck me today and I wanted to share it. So let’s go out of order, we’re still in a pandemic and nothing means anything anymore, so instead of Remission; enjoy Reflections.
This time last year my body was in so much pain I couldn’t properly climb the stairs. At bedtime, I would wait for Willis and the kids to go up first. Once they were all in a room, I would crawl up the stairs – slowly – on all fours so they couldn’t see. Get myself to my feet. Walk 10 steps to Etta’s room and collapse on her bed. From there, I’d read bedtime stories and tell myself it would all be okay. My pain had prompted me to contact my dear friend and Osteopath on January 4th, who wasn’t working at the time, remember the pandemic… that we’re still in, to plead for help.
Jan 5, 2021: Marcelle found a golf-ball sized lump above my left collarbone. Months after I was declared in remission, she told me when she was in school they would say you would recognize critical illness in the body. She always asked how could you know? She felt baffled by it. That day, she found out. She told me calmly to seek out my doctor — inside, she knew what they would find. Her ability to hide that concern and keep treating me until I find out amazes me, and shows her extreme professionalism. Even when faced with a friend staring down the cancer tunnel. When I went home, I looked in the mirror and there it was, Lumpy. Big. Bad. Protruding. I felt so stupid having not noticed it. How? How did I miss this?
Jan 6, 2021: Sitting on my doctor’s table I told her there was a lump. She said “hmm… that’s odd” and we would order an ultrasound. “It’s probably nothing…”
For the next few weeks, Willis and I waited in silent terror. Could it be the worst? It couldn’t be, right?
It would be 47 more days before a diagnosis would come. There’s a tumour in your chest. 8.3cm x 8.2cm. Cancer. Aggressive Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
Jan, 8 2022: I’ve returned to The Class. I loved it when I started it in 2020. I did it until that November when I suddenly I felt so much pain, I couldn’t get on, or off, my mat. I’ve been off my mat – regularly – for a while now. It took some months to recover from the affects of chemotherapy. It took a few more to make peace with the old and new me. The before Danielle and after the big “C” Danielle. I don’t recognize the woman I was before. I love the one I am now. To be sure, I loved the old one, too but she often worried about things that didn’t matter. Trivial. Non-life-threatening, ridiculously minute things. The truth is, I’m struggling in this new body. But in a different way. In a way where I am damn glad I can not just climb the stairs, but run up them. I’m still dealing with the affects of prolonged steroid use. Still worrying if every DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) is just that or the return of the big, bad cancer. Still worrying if every little asthmatic blip is a tumour growing in my chest again. But moving anyway. Rejoicing that I can lift my hands above my head. That I can do a jumping jack. That I am moving for JOY. That I am settled. That I am six-months in remission. That my hair is a full-on pixie. That I don’t look sick anymore. That I don’t FEEL sick anymore.
Moving, again.
So let’s do it. Together. Take stock of where you were one year ago. Yes, we are all living in the hellscape of a seemingly never-ending pandemic. Yes, we are all struggling with anxiety. Fear. Loneliness. But we are still here. We are stronger than we were last year. Even if in some moments, it doesn’t feel like it.
I don’t believe in resolutions, I haven’t for a long time. The inherit root of them being that there’s something wrong with you that needs to change. There’s nothing wrong with you. You are exactly where you need to be. But what I am doing is committing to move my body more. Because I love to. I love exercising. Dancing. Pilates-ing. Yoga-ing. So I’m going to try to do it more. To sop up the sweat and soak in the endorphins.
Like many of us, I’ve been watching the latest instalment of Queer Eye to boost my mood. In it, they spruce people up, but mostly, they give us stories of being a human. Our complexity. Our resilience. In one episode, this quote crawled across the screen:
“Character consists of what you do on the third and fourth tries.”
James A. Michener
It made me smile. Genuinely. And remember — genuinely — that this is what being alive is about. Getting knocked down and standing back up. Or getting knocked down and taking a fucking nap for a while. So you can recharge and … eventually get back up. So if you’re in the throws of juggling remote school, or your kids’ remote school, or your business is shut down (again), or you’re stuck inside alone AGAIN, know that we will get through this. Soon this will be a year ago. Soon we will have conquered it. Not to invalidate how much it sucks. Because IT DOES, SO MUCH. But to remember this is what being alive is about. Being pulled under the current. Riding the waves. Surfing the waves. And doing it all over again. And at the end of it all, remembering this isn’t a luxury we all have. Sending strength and courage. Love and togetherness. Hope and joy. And the reminder that so many things can change in one small year. And so many things can get better.