I went for run today. For the first time since Tristen popped out to say hello, I jogged along for 15 minutes with no pain.
I repeat: with. no. pain.
In my prior life, a 15-minute run would not make me feel very good. It would mean I was feeling lazy that day, or I’d had a few too many glasses of wine the night before. But in my new cancer-surgery-recovery life, a 15-minute run is a huge milestone. It’s a sign that things have improved. It’s a sign that I am inching ever closer to a return to my normal life.
As my feet moved along with beat of the music, my mind began to clear. I had forgotten how good exercise was for the spirit and the body, and just how much I had missed being active. Which is probably why, when my short run ended, I felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. Here I was, one day shy of 13 weeks after a major surgery, having just completed my first step towards the more active life that I was used to, and I was crying. What the fuck?
The only explanation I can think of is that for every happy step I take up the recovery ladder, I come face to face with a reminder of what just happened. I am only excited by this little activity because I wasn’t able to do so much for so long. And now that it’s becoming possible again, it’s like the weight of what I’ve gone through, the things that I say I am fine about, push back even stronger.
But I won’t let that discourage me. Because as I ran, proudly sporting my “JOIN THE BATTLE” Cycle for Survival shirt, I felt hopeful. I felt an elation that only physical activity can give me, I felt like I’d recovered a part of myself, and, perhaps most importantly, I felt like I’d overcome a bad stroke of luck that will in the end make me an even stronger version of me. And that is the feeling that will win in the end.