Pathological Response

This little guy (or gal) on the CT machine tells me when to "breathe in," "hold," and "release" so that they can get clear images of my lungs So I’m finally getting around to writing after many months of slacking off.   Recently (if you can call it that) I wrote about my return to the gym and my courageous attempts to remain calm in the face of conflicting (albeit well-meaning) advice about food and hot tubs and Himalayan salt stones, among other things.   I recounted how I had indulged in a jacuzzi and massage fest as I celebrated the end of chemo with a family get-away.   In editing my story, I made myself look awfully brave.   Truth is, I’m not always brave. So today I write about the elephant that barges into the room uninvited from time to time.   Today I write about fear.   I used to think that giving it voice might give it some kind of power over me.   Now I realize that it will only have power over me if I don’t write abo...

Himalayan Salt Stones looking innocent enough... Well, I’ve been back at the gym for six months now and I haven’t lost an ounce.  The tamoxifen I take to prevent a recurrence of breast cancer is thwarting my efforts to shed the flab I put on during treatment.  I know, I know.  I should be grateful that the pills haven’t given me hot flashes, or night sweats, or made me homicidal, like they did to someone I know.  (Yikes!)  I have virtually no side effects at all.  It’s just that I expected to shed a few pounds in exchange for working out like Jennifer Beals 4-5 days a week.  I guess the tamoxifen knows it has the upper hand here.  It’s not like I’m going to stop taking it for the sake of vanity.  So for now I try not to focus on my thunder thighs. I attack my workouts with a vengeance but it’s hard to conquer the sense of doubt that comes with a cancer diagnosis no matter how many miles I clock on the spinning bike.  As odd as it...

Surprise! It’s January and I’m back at the gym. Jane, my first fitness guru No, this is not some half-baked New Year’s resolution. I returned to the gym in August, though it’s been a bit stop-and-go. After a blissfully carefree summer, I was ready to shed the twelve pounds of flab that I’d accumulated over eight months of chemo, surgery, and radiation. The "no joiners' fee" promo from the local YMCA spurred me into action. The timing of my return was tricky because I had follow-up surgery scheduled for mid-September, but I threw myself into zumba and spinning with wild abandon anyway. After all, they say that fit people are more likely to recover from surgery quickly, so what did I have to lose? (Except for that tire around my waist, of course.) I was so giddy to be back in the saddle that I insisted on seeking out a spinning class in Colorado while vacationing there. It was fun, even if the instructor did decide to refer to me as "Boston." She kept shou...