Impatient Outpatient

My gluteus maximus aren't. They have been gluteus minimus for about eight or nine months, as I lost my butt muscles along with many other muscles in the course of my illnesses. I used to have a little junk in my trunk, a comfortable booty, and it just went away. Disappeared. There will be some who wonder why I should be upset about losing weight from this notoriously difficult area of the female shape, but the issue has become connected to my sense of my own health. You need something to fill your jeans, and the derrière does the job. It makes you look well to have a bit of meat on your bones. My jeans are unfilled and if my clothes fit, which many don't, they look strange. This issue of my lack of badonkadonk has paradoxically come to the fore recently. I have found it strange that as I begin my rehabilitation with a range of activities and exercises, it's my butt muscles that hurt the most. How about that.

There's a lot more to rehabilitation than first meets the eye. That doesn't mean you can check out my posterior.

Rocky was damn lucky to have a time lapsing film montage to short-cut his comebacks. All that bloody hard work got done in the time it took to play "Gonna Fly Now". From ruins to rewards in 4 minutes 49 seconds (probably edited down in the movie, I've never actually seen a whole Rocky movie, so I'm no expert. But I have seen the montages). Anyway, the reality is vastly different as any sensible person knows, whether they like Rocky or not (and in any case you've gotta love the soundtrack).

The most obvious part of rehabilitation is the physical aspect. I have a long road ahead of me before I get back to normal. T. S. Eliot wrote:

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

will be to arrive where we started

and know the place for the first time.

(Four Quartets)

I feel all my exploring of late has been off the beaten track, and I have wandered far from the person I used to be, particularly in a physical sense. The changes wrought on my body are visible as well as hidden, but the most apparent and important right now are my lack of strength, endurance, stamina. Very subtle shifts in the current that occurred over time left me marooned on a far shore, where physical activity can only be tolerated either in very short bursts or with low intensity. This bars access to many of the things I love to do, and miss doing: gardening, walking my dog, teaching, to name a few. I have begun a particular rehabilitation program, which is great for the physical but not so great on the mental and emotional side yet. I tune into channel 31 at 8:30am from Monday to Friday, and do Exercise for Oldies. Actually, it’s called ‘Move It or Lose It’, and provides low impact exercise for elderly people. It's filmed in retirement villages throughout Melbourne and is backed by the Arthritis Foundation. I am so impatient to rehabilitate myself, and navigate back to something like the strength of the person I once was, perhaps even stronger, that I am willing to endure the embarrassment of following Hilda from Whacky-Doo Retirement Village as she does armchair aerobics to a soundtrack of "Oh I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside" and "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" (I kid you not. Need to get "Gonna Fly Now" on repeat on the iPod I think). And when I do, finally, reach a level of fitness and strength that is comparable to what I had before, it will be like knowing that place for the first time, having an appreciation of it that forbids taking it for granted ever again. And, no more Hilda.

There are other aspects of rehabilitation. Mental, emotional, financial. Yes, money is part of my rehabilitation, or at least it will be. It's tough losing an income for a year or more. Fortunately for us, the impact has been more about my guilt and sense of responsibility about not contributing, rather than slipping into the red. Our team had a five year plan and drafted a conservative money manager back in '06, one who likes to keep his finger on the pulse (purse) and keep something aside for a rainy day. Monsoon season will be over soon, right? But being able to contribute to the team’s funds is important...mentally.

Which is next. The mental part of rehab. You know how it is. It's the test. THE BIG TEST. The test of whether you are going to go screamingly, stark-raving, naked, nutso, gibbering, slobbering, singing-songs-by-Bucks-Fizz-and-Racey, teeth-gnashingly mad. Or preferably not. But coming sooooooo close every day. Anyone who has ever had to work their way back into health after sports injury, work injury, run of the mill injury, self inflicted stupidity injury, crap cancer illnesses and other sneaky maladies knows what it's like. Impatient? Me? VERY. It's been over a year for god’s sake. Life - let me at it already! Mental? Yes I am!

Thankfully, with added golden glimmers and heavenly blessings, the emotional side of rehab is not actually the problem this time (apart from the low grade mortification that occurs when doing Hilda's armchair aerobics). Hope, enthusiasm, anticipation, motivation, self esteem, participation, independence, and a healthy rush of endorphins are both the carrot and the stick in getting this rehab donkey moving. If these emotions were absent, then rehabilitation would be hell on earth. Which it can be for some people I grant you. But the upside is the biggest you'll ever get. I mean EVER. I'm talking about being healthy and staying that way. HUGE.

So for me it's just another longish term slog to get through, a new mountain to climb, another exploration, but a much more pleasurable one with a much better view than chemotherapy or surgery. Or bed rest. Slowly, and in increments, my butt will get bigger. My jeans will get filled and my clothes start to fit again. Every arm rotation, wrist flex and leg stretch I do with Hilda will get me closer to being me again.

Gonna fly now.

It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.

Confucius

Chinese philosopher & reformer (551 BC - 479 BC)




Disclaimer: I already admitted that I haven't seen any of the Rocky movies all the way through. So if I got stuff wrong, kiss my badonkadonk. At least I quoted T.S. Eliot.