For one
thing, it means that I will be out of the most acute recovery zone. I will not
be “out of the woods” so to speak (that takes years), but I will be able to get
off most of my medications and live a bit more normally.
And by
“more normally,” I mean that maybe I can eat a breakfast that is bigger than
the mountain of pills I take each morning. Maybe I can pull my wallet from my
purse without a vial of heparin popping out onto the counter. (Yes, that really
happened.) Or perhaps I won’t have to explain to perfect strangers who just had to know where I get my hair cut
that it’s actually a wig.
But
reconstruction is one tough gig. First there are medications, supplements,
green smoothies, huge salads, and litres upon litres of water. Then, to gain
weight, there are avocados, hemp seed, peanut butter and protein shakes. Then,
to gain muscle, there are lunges, squats, sit-ups, bicep curls, hikes, walks,
and the infamous shuffle. And, to gain everything else, there is prayer. There
is always, always
prayer.
I will
readily admit that on some days I just sit around and do nothing. I skip
strength training sessions just like I did before I was sick (it has never been
my favourite thing). But I cannot be this hobbling, weak waif forever, and not
only because I am way too old to start a modelling career. So I walk, I eat,
and I lift my paltry two-and-a-half pound dumbbells. (Yes, you read that right.
I have been reduced to weights that my grandmother could probably juggle.)
This is all
very humbling for a woman who once ran over seventy kilometres a week, did
power yoga, and hit the gym on a regular basis. It is very tempting to wallow
in self-pity and stay on the couch watching The O.C. re-runs (don’t judge). But I walk my
forty-five minutes almost every day. Some days I get pretty far in those
minutes, other days I don’t. Some days I even run-walk. It can be a monotonous grind,
but on those days, I just remind myself of the time in the hospital where I
couldn’t even stand up. I remember that and think of the people still on the
ward, and I keep going. I have a chance now to rebuild myself the way I want –
from skin and bones to muscular and fit – and who gets a chance like that?
So I pray
and meditate and try to figure out where my life went wrong. Regrets come in
hard and fast. What if I had done that, or this? What if I had not done that? I try to remind myself
that this cancer is not my fault. Sometimes that’s a hard thing to remember.
I rebuild
in teeny tiny pieces. There are days when I hate it, when I am sick of being so
tired and weak. There are days when I wish I could erase it all and be in
Ecuador where I was supposed to be this fall. But most of the time I try to
live where I am. I cannot change what happened, but I can reconstruct myself.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
