Arms Up, Pants Up
I am getting stronger.
At some point in the last month or so, I’ve felt a shift; I’ve transitioned from “lady recovering from cancer treatment” to “lady who is building strength.” Not the kind of strength that’s going to turn me into one of those hot fitness ladies of a certain age on Insta or Tik Tok, mind you. Or the kind of strength about which people will ask me tips and advice while looking at my buff physique. Nobody is going to look at me and wonder, “Has she had lipo? A tummy tuck?” Nope. But guess what? I can use my arm.
The effects of radiation are cumulative, and mine showed up in full force about 9 months ago. I was going along just until BAM- enter excruciating pain and the sudden inability to use my left arm in an effective manner. What do I mean by “effective manner”, you ask? Please take a moment to try to pull your pants up with one arm…I’ll wait.
Not easy, right? I had edema, lymphedema, cording, and frozen shoulder…none of which I would have circled on a list of my anticipated side effects from cancer treatment but were mine nonetheless. And when we can’t use a body part effectively, we adjust our movements to avoid pain and subsequently cause pain in other parts until we can’t muster up energy for anything but sitting on the couch with a pint of ice cream. (Out of breath from that long sentence? That’s the effect I was going for, so don’t come at me with grammar stuff.) I didn’t want to be that version of myself, so I got help. First, I worked with the oncological physical therapists at the cancer center. Yes, there are physical therapists whose whole focus is on the breast and surrounding areas, and they are angels sent from heaven. They noticed, and I quote, “You have a lot of issues that we don’t want to mess with” and sent me to an orthopedist. There, help came in the form of a cortisone shot. “Will this help me pull up my pants?” I asked as the needle was jabbed into and then wriggled around in my shoulder. An MRI indicated that yes, I had a lot of issues. The suggestion was for surgery and physical therapy. Having already been through two surgeries in the past calendar year, I was reluctant to put my body through another one. So we agreed to try physical therapy for at least 6 weeks to see what progress could be made. And here’s where I was helped in ways I never anticipated.
Is physical therapy ridiculously painful? YES. Is it counterintuitive to take the most painful part of your body and make it do things that cause MORE pain under the guise of being helpful? YES. Is progress fast? NO. Do physical therapists get offended when you utter the F-word under your breath when they torture you in the name of healing? Also NO. They are professionals, they know people need to vent, and that’s why they warn you if there is a child or a nun nearby. I was going two days a week - don’t even get me started on how fast the copays piled up - and doing the exercises/self torture at home on the days I wasn’t scheduled. And it was awful, and it hurt, and I didn’t want to do it. But I did. And guess what I wasn’t thinking about during any of it? Cancer. All I was focusing on was what my body used to be able to do and would be able to do again if I worked really hard. And THAT felt amazing. Climbing out of the chasm in my brain created by the earthquake that is the big C was not what I thought I would be doing, but it was. My body was doing hard stuff and getting stronger as a result, and my brain was remembering what it used to be like to be me.
“Wow! Check you out!” my physical therapist cheered on my last day, watching me lift my arm above my head. I swear to you, I felt the same sense of accomplishment I did when I first learned to tie my own shoes. It was a happy thing for sure. Since that day just a few weeks ago, I have danced, I have kayaked, and I have confidently lifted my grandson.
And guess what? I can pull up my pants.