physiotherapy

De Nederlandse Norm van Gezond Bewegen or the Dutch standard for healthy activity

/ RCRuiz

After the exercise portion of our physiotherapy class today, we spent time thinking on what healthy activity meant to us and what plans we could make for ourselves now that recovery and balance classes are coming to an end.

All through the various phases of treatment, from surgery to recovery from surgery through radiotherapy and chemo and immunotherapy, I had more or less been able to maintain some form of exercise. Whether it was walking 10,000 steps a day or going to physiotherapy class, I was able to do that. But the last round that I had with chemo depleted my stores so much that I sometimes felt frustrated by my inability to be stronger. I kept telling myself that I would get stronger.

For more than a year, oncological physiotherapy served like a tether or a safety net. Sure, I wasn’t very strong, but I was doing something and that gave me a feeling of some control.

At one point, I said to our physiotherapist: I probably just have to accept that it is what it is.

Thankfully, she didn’t agree. Thankfully, she suggested that I go on to recovery and balance class which was more intense, but she believed it was the best class to get me to where I wanted to be.

As recovery and balance class nears a close, I am thankful. Even when I grumbled about how hard the class was, I now have the tools I need to balance myself. Today, I was surprised to find that I can do a full plank again. Doing the plank helped me recognise that I can trust my body to carry me and as long as I listen to what my body is saying, I can know that it will continue to serve me well.

Writing this, I have to think about a feisty woman who must have been just a little bit older than me. She was in my first physiotherapy class, but opted not to continue with classes focused on oncological patients.

“It becomes comfortable,” she said. “You get stuck in that grove of belonging with patients who are in recovery, but you have to get out of it. You have to move out of that comfortable space.”

While our physiotherapist didn’t say the exact same words today, they had a similar resonance.

“You’ve built up your core strength, we’ve talked through how to balance and where to go if you need support. Another three months of oncological physiotherapy won’t benefit you more than going out and taking up the challenge of being active again on your own.”

So, even though the option exists to continue in a similar space, I have decided to leave the comfort of being in a space where everyone has been through similar experiences. In some ways, it’s scary. But in other ways, I realise this is a natural progression. As we leave our comfortable spaces, we discover new things. Our horizon expands. We discover new strengths and we learn that we have the capacity to continue to grow and to become even stronger than we are now.

It’s okay to retreat into our cozy spaces from time to time, but we’re not meant to dwell there. We’re meant to be out in the world. Living and thriving and growing and sharing and becoming all that we are meant to be.

(NNGB: 30 minutes a day of active movement whether brisk walking or biking with a normal bike or briskly walking up and down the stairs when done 5 days a week are considered healthy activity. There are other parameters of course, but basically 30 minutes of daily movement is good for you. Movement makes you more resilient and studies have shown that it prolongs life expectancy.)

Blessings and peace to you who read this and thank you for stopping by.

Recovery and balance after cancer treatments

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

It’s a sign of recovery that I’m updating this blog more often. That I have the energy to finish writing a post on this blog is a big thing. Back in December, I would start writing and then end up not finishing because posting any kind of update cost so much effort. I still have some of that fatigue–but then in social situations where I think up words and then go–ah, it’s too tiring to say them.

One thing that’s helped me a lot through treatment has been the surprise called art making. I didn’t know just how much it would help me through the difficult days when I had no words, through the days when I couldn’t do more than sit on the couch or putter around the living room. A lot of times, my art making was me throwing color on canvas while I argued out loud with God. I think of the kind of upbringing I had were I had this idea that one was supposed to sit quietly in church and be really respectful when talking to God and use your best words because everyone else was doing that. But I have grown more convinced that God actually doesn’t care much for our pretty words.

I’m writing this as I wait for the results from my most recent scan. It’s funny how there’s always this feeling of tension after a new scan–it’s a moment where I tense up before I think: Ah, what’s the worst that can happen?

I mean, I had the “we cured you” talk, three years ago. And then three months later that changed to ” we thought we cured you, but actually we didn’t, and we don’t know if we can ever cure you. But this is the plan.”

I’ve had conversations where the scans were iffy. Where the results were non-conclusive but I was a good candidate for a clinical trial where I might get a chance at a new (as yet unavailable) drug. I’ve been through two trials and in none of these trials did I get the trial drug.

My last drug was Doxorubicin. It had this distinct characteristic of being red and in the lead-up to November, I saw some fake dextrose bags with red liquid being sold for halloween in shops. I made a joke about how my drug was the ultimate halloween drug. Doxo is scary in its strength and in its side effects and most days I was just out for the count after an infusion. The funny thing though was how it made me so hungry that I grew by 12 kilos in the months I was having the infusions.

I had six infusions of doxo as that was the trial requirement. By the sixth infusion, I was so relieved I felt like crying and cheering all at the same time. I just wanted to finish treatment and thankfully it looked like doxo did its job. Once again, we had the “we really can’t say you will ever be cured” talk. By that time, I was like: it doesn’t matter. I am so tired of hospitals and needles. I mean, I love my oncologist, but I would love if a time comes when I don’t have to see her anymore except for a social catch-up.

I’ve been out of active treatment for more than three months, but have to have a follow-up scan every two months. Each time, I almost forget until a reminder shows up that I have a hospital appointment.

I’m doing so well at physiotherapy that I’ve been moved to a program called Recovery and Balance. It’s a 12 week program towards recovery and at last night’s information evening, I had this feeling of: Oh dear, I didn’t know it was going to be this intense. I admit to being a little bit annoyed when I realised that I would have to rearrange all my planning around this program for the next 12 weeks.

But studies show that people who have gone through life-changing diagnoses such as cancer and its ensuing treatments, benefit a lot from programs such as the one I have signed up for. So, despite being annoyed, I have duly rearranged my agenda to make sure I can complete those 12 weeks.

Our physiotherapists tell us that it’s not just the physical that needs time to recover. Recovery is also psycho-social. It takes time to work through what’s happened and often people think it’s going well, but it turns out that there could be an underlying depression brought about by so much change and trauma.

I have to say that it’s when you’re going through hard times you’ll find what matters to you most and also you’ll see the people who will stick no matter how tough things are. It’s also in the aftermath of everything, when the busyness of hospital visits are over that you discover that there are people who were just waiting for you to have the energy and time to re-connect. I’m so thankful for those people. For friends and loved ones and for partners and fellow collaborators who refused to write me off because I had cancer. I’m thankful for people who kept me writing and who made the extra effort to reach out and ask me to submit and remind me about calls for stories. (By the time I was doing Doxo, I was just so out of it, I couldn’t even understand emails though.)

During one of our talks, I said this to my oncologist: Doctor, my life isn’t cancer.

Yes, my oncologist said. You are more than cancer. Your life is so much more than that.

I am thankful for an oncologist who sees that and who says those words to me out loud.

This post is a lot of personal, but I hope it will help someone out there who reads it.

To you who read this, thank you for reading. Blessings and peace.