Dear Body

Dear Body,

I don’t know exactly when I began to lose my trust in you, but I vividly remember the moment all trust was shattered. I remember how you had annoyed me with random aches and pains, and a myriad of problems through my teenage years, but you still allowed me to work out intensely at the gym and lift quite a lot of weight in the form of furniture. And then there was the day I had to move the small cube shelf in our girls’ shared bedroom—and I couldn’t make it budge. Instead, I fell backward, feeling ashamed and incredibly weak. At that moment I knew something wasn’t right. And then the moments snowballed: the collapse at the end of a violin performance, the shortness of breath at the top of the stairs, the coughing, the weird skin patches. All trust was lost, even as you valiantly attempted to fight cancer not once, but twice. And then you’d think the laundry list of challenges after—Type 2 diabetes, hemolytic anemia, Type 1 diabetes, liver problems, cardiac problems, chronic lung damage, paralyzed phrenic nerve—you’d think the way you carried me through to finish college despite the adversities from cancer would have rebuilt my trust.

But it did not.

Instead, I’ve grown increasingly distrustful, and even angry at you. I feel betrayed by you. I spent the week in beautiful San Diego, with some wonderful coworkers. Typical California, I saw gorgeous people everywhere. But I also saw a video clip of myself, juxtaposed with my pregnant coworker. And all I saw were the tummy rolls, and how big both our stomachs were. All I sometimes see in the mirror is the excess weight. Or the stretch marks from those many rounds of prednisone. Or the wire of my insulin pump. Or the sleeve bulge of my CGM (continuous glucose monitor). I know I shouldn’t care what others think, but I do. I always wonder if people will judge me (a decently heavy woman) for scarfing a piece of cake or pizza. Never knowing that my blood sugar is plummeting.

I hate that my pregnant friend did a more strenuous version of the spin class we were at. While she offered no judgment, only support, I was angry at you. Totally ignoring that you continue to carry my chemo-shot joints, or stave off the pain of fibromyalgia creeping through me. My super ripped coworker wanted to do standup paddleboarding in Cali. While I jumped at the chance to be on the water, I held myself back, as I knew you would never be able to keep up with how fast and far he would want to go. I looked at you in angry shame, forgetting how you had carried me through so many tedious hours of standing and talking at the conference that week. I only remembered that you didn’t have the energy I craved in that moment. I was fuming when I needed assistance from him and the kayak operator to disembark. You chose that moment to remind me of the painful leg muscle spasms that occasionally upend my life and render me immobile.

I want you to be 29. I want you to be athletic and adventurous and keep up with the others your age. I don’t like that you feel like you’re 70. I know I shouldn’t care what others think about me, but I do care—especially when sometimes the carefully crafted outfits and deftly hidden CGM give the illusion of a healthy woman.

Nothing about you screams cancer at present. You have the hair that was gone for so many years. You can walk again. The only inclination of anything off-kilter is the tethering of an insulin pump, but even that is often craftily secluded.

When I look in the mirror, I see the outside you and get so angry. I’m so sorry I keep forgetting about the inside. I forget that your lungs eek by at only 40% capacity. I forget your heart, bravely soldiering to gain a percentage point of ejection fraction each year. I forget the many once atrophied muscles, that still rally to carry me through everyday life. I forget the radiated sweat glands that have led to a malfunctioning cooling system. I forget the liver, irreversibly damaged yet still trudging on to keep me alive. I forget you, my brain, foggy and beaten to a pulp by intense chemo, yet rallied to get me a college degree and continues to solider on in the corporate world.

It’s easy to forget. You have been to the brink of death itself, on more than one occasion. And yet, I don’t give you nearly the credit you deserve. It’s so easy to focus on what you cannot do. Why the hours I have spent in the gym don’t translate to a fit body or working muscles. Why the diet I adhere to doesn’t produce good sugar numbers. Why the scar-removing creams don’t remove the steroid stretch marks. I want to walk around in tank tops and shorts. Ideally without the bulging tummy rolls and stretched mark arms. I want to fit into the gorgeous outfits I see that are carried in normal sizes. I want to not care what you look like, but I can’t.

The trust you destroyed is not easily rebuilt. But I’d like to think one day it will be. Perhaps one day my brain will be mature enough not to care what the world thinks, but to celebrate you for carrying me through. But I know I will always wonder—will you betray me again?