Seven Minutes (and other miscellany) in Here Be Dust

On Tuesday (and on the next three days) I did a basic plank for three minutes and side planks for two minutes each – to “Eitheror” by Little People, chopped up into timed clips so that I wouldn’t have to look at the clock.

The side planks are particularly challenging for me, not only because they require greater balance but because I become acutely aware that my left side is not what it used to be, compared with my right side. My left side has had its issues prior to cancer; when I was hit by a car at age 7 and both my legs were broken, the left leg had a compound fracture. That same accident had ruptured my intestines, resulting in a chunk being taken from the left side of my abdomen. All of that has had an effect on my flexibility and muscle strength.

My tumor had been in my left breast, so after surgery I had to work to return my left arm to full flexibility. Add in radiation, which can potentially compromise muscle, though I don’t really know if that is true in my case. It seems most times I fight harder to hold my side plank on the left side – although sometimes it’s the reverse.

When the music stopped on Tuesday I grinned, because I had exceeded the maximum duration for side planks that I had achieved prior to treatment.

I hadn’t been doing planks for long. I had started basic planks in January of last year and had worked up to a four-minute hold on February 26, the day before my biopsy. Once I had healed sufficiently from that, I resumed my basic planks on March 1 and added side planks, beginning at 20 seconds each. By March 23, two days before my lumpectomy, I was doing a four-minute basic and 1:45 sides.

Then all my planks stopped. I finally resumed them on December 14, nine days after I ended radiation: one-minute basic, 30-second sides, which I have built up into three and two minutes, respectively. So far.

The planks make me sweat. My body vibrates; my heart rate increases. My slow, deep breaths pick up speed. After finishing a plank I ease back into the child’s pose and let my muscles relax while taking deep belly breaths.

Because my body is different now, I have begun to take a 15-minute break between the basic plank and the sides. I distract myself on the computer because I get impatient. Even if I think my body doesn’t need a 15-minute break it gets one.

The same goes for weights. I do not do circuit training; I do strength training aimed at protecting my bones. Lately I have increased reps rather than pounds, and I rest in-between sets, sometimes for several minutes.

My focus has changed from what it had been before cancer. Before cancer I had just wanted to see what my body could do, how far I could build my strength and endurance. It was a game more than anything else, a carefree voyage of discovery.

Now it is part of my fight for self-preservation. It continues a chain reaction that had begun with active treatment, and that continues first with a white pill that I take before bed. One milligram of anastrazole. That pill, smaller than the diameter of a pencil eraser and completely overwhelmed by the breadth of my palm, is my best defense against cancer coming back. That tiny thing goes up against a killer.

That pill can also hurt me, with its potential to thin my bones to the point of fracture. It sends me to the next links in the chain: calcium plus strength training via planks and weights.

Sometimes I get angry as I fight through my plank holds. My body trembles, pushing for five more seconds and then another five, and another as I stare cancer down. My anger lets me power through, when all I want to do is release and relax, because that is what it wants. Not really, of course, but the anthropomorphizing helps. The effect is the same: I am protecting and defending my territory, my body, my life.

At other times I call on my inner power in a kind of cosmic meditative vibe. I channel strength and healing energies from earth and sky and send them out into the world, and I fight to hold my position as a way of connecting with something greater.

Whatever works. It depends on the day.

And – because my body isn’t what it used to be – I take more breaks. I push, but I also respect. That, too, is part of healing and protecting.

Above: Satsuma Mandarins from my local chemical-free farmer’s market. These taste wonderful after exercise (or at any time).

January 10 marked my 390th day of maintenance (I had reached my goal weight about 2-1/2 months prior to diagnosis), which meant another 30-day update on MyFitnessPal. Here’s the big picture:

Here’s the detailed view:

On Thursday I had my follow-up with the surgeon. Everything looks great; my next follow-up isn’t for another year. Surgeon enjoyed my color charts of progress in weightlifting and planks and encouraged same – said that strengthened muscles help the lymphatic system. (I had been cautious about weightlifting and my risk of lymphedema, but was set at ease by Johns Hopkins’ excellent “Strength After Cancer” webinar.)

Other health care providers had complimented the surgeon’s work, so I passed that on, too. My radiation techs had admired the way he had done my breast surgery (I agree!). The nurse who accessed my port for my follow-up MUGA scan last month said he had done a “really nice outie.”

When I mentioned the latter compliment, the surgeon gave me the credit and said, “That’s because you’re skinny.” Moi? Even though I’ve maintained for over a year now and feel very settled into my size and shape, being called “skinny” still catches me by surprise. Here’s why:

I had spent most of my life on the heavier end of the scale and had been a chubby kid growing up. Words like “skinny” and “thin” still create cognitive dissonance in me; I see myself rather as “just right.” Another realization: my invasive colloid carcinoma had been slow-growing, so I likely already had cancer in each of those photos, unbeknownst to me at the time.

Also on Thursday, thanks to a freshly-opened bottle of water (as opposed to the water-and-lemon-juice bottle I carry with me), I can now say with certainty that my metallic chemo mouth is finally GONE! I was lucky in that it hadn’t affected my food, but it had affected my water. I’ve continued to add lemon juice because I like the taste, but this marks the first time I’ve drunk straight-up water since chemo. *happy dance*

On deck: Follow-up with my radiation oncologist next week.

In other news: More hair!

Hair, Again!
(with apologies to lyricists Mac Dermot, Galt/rado, James/ragni, and Gerome – compare with the video at the bottom)

They ask the same, why I’m a close-cropped dame.
Hair’s growin’ noon and night, it’s gettin’ right.
Hair growin’ high and low, no more Brazilian (whoa!).
It’s not for cosmic clues, like the Moody Blues. Darlin’ –

Give me a head with hair, scalp-covering hair.
Peeking, sneaking, wispy, fuzzy, wuzzy.
Give me out to there. (Hair!) Shoulder length? Forget it!
Here baby, there mama, drive out that primo chemo –

Hair!
Edging, pledging,
Follicles for dredging up hair.

Let it fill in the bald with some new growth untold,
No more head gettin’ cold, with my hair.
No cap to unfold, no skin for the sun to scald
A covered dome, I grab my comb
And I’ve done it, begun it, to run it through my

Hair!
Edging, pledging,
Follicles for dredging up hair.

Forget ‘bout long, straight, curly, fuzzy, snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka dotted, twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled or spahettied –

I just want to see solid cover if I can;
Then my hair’s just right.
Not down here, not to there,
Just enough, down to where it might need a trim.

I am ga-ga for my gray-gray even if some call me cray-cray,
My crazy love of thin, tufted, struggling, stick-outie hair.
My hair like that which fell out, didn’t need a wig to shell out.
My new eyebrows, lashes, nostril hairs, chin hairs and underarms…

Hair!
Edging, pledging,
Follicles for dredging my
Hair!
Edging, pledging,
Follicles for dredging my
Hair!
Edging, pledging,
Follicles for dredging my
Hair!