My Body is a Jerk

My body is a jerk. A common refrain of mine and an easy short-hand to answer why something happened. Why do you have to go to the bathroom so often, Dil? My body is a jerk. Why did your spine get compression fractures? Because my body is a jerk. Why are you still testing positive for COVID-19 six months after you got over it and have no symptoms? Because my body is a big, fat jerk.

I don’t think it’s surprising to anyone that your body changes because of cancer and treatment. Cancer is bad and the treatment is basically poison, so one might imagine you don’t quite come out unscathed. There are the more obvious signs—losing all your hair and looking like a big egg; flaking off dead skin like you’re snowing because of radiation, etc. But it’s the more subtle things that take you by surprise.

I never anticipated that being able to clip my own nails would not be possible for months after I got out of the hospital. Due to a combination of the shakes from the meds and also simply not having the physical grip strength to squeeze the nail clippers, I couldn’t do it. Getting even that little bit of autonomy back just throws you for a loop—excitement, relief, joy, and just being annoyed that you couldn’t even do the littlest thing without asking for help.

That, of course, is where the “trusting my body” comes into play—can I do what I did before? Can I do what I did without actively thinking about it? Can I do what I did without it turning into a 5+ step, very intentional process?

My body and I have always had a loose understanding of what it was going to do. Most people have a natural grace about them where if they stop paying attention for a second, their body takes over and completes the motion. Me? I am not one of those people (see above—my body is a jerk). I’m more of a klutz who never really figured out quite how much space he takes up. Which meant even on my best days I was a bundle of uncoordinated limbs. This made for hilarious visuals while I did martial arts (imagine a six-foot whirligig that happens to have arms and legs flailing about while yelling at the top of his lungs; go ahead, I’ll wait), and I would constantly bump into things.

Despite all that, it was my body, and it could do enough. I could walk around, I could reach for things on high shelves, and I could function without asking for help. Steroid-induced osteopenia has thrown a monkey wrench into everything. I broke my back while brushing my teeth. I didn’t realize what was happening—all I knew was that one second I was rinsing and spitting and the next I was screaming in pain. Turns out that reduced bone density can cause some issues.

I needed the steroids I was on to keep the graft versus host disease at bay. As with many cancer meds, though, my life was saved by the steroids, but the side effects left a multitude of issues in their wake.

Now, every motion requires forethought. There’s no moving quickly or reflexively. I can’t twist, I can’t bend, I can’t reach for anything too far away. Even putting on my socks is a whole thing. I walk around with a back brace and a cane, moving like a very old turtle.

Like many things during active treatment and post-cancer, the recovery is a slow process. An extremely slow process. With setbacks. The number of times where I’ve been feeling a little bit stronger and a little bit better only to accidentally tweak my back while I thought I was being careful—I’d have a nice little handful of nickels to rub together. And I know it’s going to get better. Eventually.

It’s those small pleasures I want to get back—petting my cats without being concerned my back will scream at me. Sitting on the couch curled up to watch a movie and not worrying about my back getting stuck and I can’t move. I long for the day I can move freely in the kitchen and cook to my heart’s content while pulling things out of the oven without help.

When I can do all of that without actively thinking about every motion, I’ll be able to trust my body again. And I’m looking forward to it. Even if my body is a bit of a jerk.