Several days ago I issued a fitness challenge to myself and asked you, my darling readers, to join in if you felt so led. Many of you did and either commented or personally messaged me, much to my delight. After all, it’s much easier to accept a challenge if you’re not in it alone.
Here we are, a week later. How are you all doing? My goal was to engage in purposeful exercise for at least 30 minutes each day and I’ve been pretty successful, I feel. Now, I didn’t say I’ve been perfect.
We pulled in the driveway yesterday and I announced to my husband I was going to run to the mailbox and check the mail. He snickered a little, stopped at the end of the drive to let me out. But before I had the chance to open the door he asked if getting the mail was like Facebook to me: I liked checking it. I snickered back. If he was a bachelor, they’d stop delivering his mail because the box would eventually burst at the seams from all the mail he didn’t retrieve from the box. This is a small way in which we differ.
But I smiled internally at his question. I am the mailman’s daughter.
I’m not like those others fitness challenge girls. You know the ones…they’re perfectly fit with excellent physiques, sculpted everything. I’m not committed to completely clean eating. I don’t show my six-pack abs at the gym when working out (mainly because I don’t have them to show). I don’t post pictures on Instagram of my sleek, amazing yoga poses (because I cannot get into sleek, amazing yoga poses). I’m not one of those fabulous girls. Yet.
I’ve wanted to be one of those girls. Let’s be honest. If your Fitness Fairy Godmother could wave a wand and make you magically and instantly fit, tight and toned, you’d certainly let her, right? Me too! I know these girls we see on YouTube, Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook work their butts off (literally!) to achieve this level of fitness and strength.
And that’s the scary part for me. It takes WORK and lots of it. It’s exhausting and overwhelming to even consider much less do. Simply beginning or even knowing how to, is a challenge in and of itself.
Every other Monday morning, I go hang out with cancer patients.
It’s not because I’m doing some noble volunteer work. It’s not because I work at a hospital (at least I don’t any more). It’s not even because I’m researching for a writing project.
Thankfully, unlike them, I do not have cancer. But like them, I do go to have medicine drip into my veins intravenously in hopes it’ll improve my health.
For Crohn’s disease, these IV infusions are the proverbial “big guns” in treatment. When regular medications and dietary changes don’t improve symptoms, biologics are in order, so here you are.
It’s humbling and terrifying all at once to be in the company of such warriors, these patients with these illnesses. (Side note: Crohn’s is a life-threatening illness as well); to be checking in, waiting, getting pre-treatment blood work and eventually stretching out in our recliners in the infusion room next to these brave souls.