A Walk with Ben
I've talked about how I try to walk every morning. I don't always succeed, but when I do, I usually have a much better day. I feel more mentally clear. I don't fall into the pit of despair quite as readily. I tend to not get quite as chemo-cranky.
All good stuff.
I'm sure I've mentioned it, but getting up to walk most mornings feels like an impossible task. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to just lie back down and sleep. Forget everything in the opiate of the little death. What out there could possibly compare to the bliss of five more minutes?
Then I (sometimes) manage to pry myself out from under the covers. I get on some gym clothes. I greet Linus, my canine companion, who at this point is going bonkers because he knows we're about to go for a walk. I prep myself for what's to come.
The morning is almost invariably beautiful, regardless of the weather. That's one of the things about living in Utah, snuggled up against the mountains. It's very difficult to have a morning that isn't in some way extraordinary.
I've become a boring walker.
It used to be that I would range all over, looking for new trails, new places to explore, new friends to greet. I've found myself turned around backward many a time, only to enjoy the process of finding myself again.
Now, I walk around my block three times. I go about a mile and a half in thirty minutes, give or take a minute or two in either direction. I see the same houses, the same people, the same dogs (sorry, Linus, but they ALL want to sniff your butt) over and over and over again.
I do this for a reason. Maybe it's not a great reason, but it's my reason, and I refuse to apologize for it. Even though out of the last 10 walks, I've done three laps 9 of those times, I walk around the block because it means I don't put myself in a place where I can't make it back home without hurting myself.
It's a real concern. The razor's edge between I'm doing okay and I am no longer doing okay has gotten more and more infinitesimally narrow as I've gone through chemo. Sometimes it happens in between one breath and the next. Breathe in. Everything's cool. Breathe out. JUST KIDDING; NO, IT'S NOT!
So, I walk in circles. That feels like a metaphor for my recent experiences, but I'm too tired to parse it out any further than that. See, I just got back from walking. I am knackered.
One of the things I encounter on my walk (three times, because, you know) is a particular apricot tree. It's currently laden with fruit, and almost every day I think about grabbing one of the ripe ones and biting into it. I don't know that the owner of the tree (who I happen to know) would miss it or mind, but since I don't have permission, I refrain.
Another part of the reason I don't reach out my hand is that, for the past few days, there's a smell of decay when I pass by that tree. Some of the apricots have fallen to the ground and started to rot. Some of them are by the curb, and have fallen into the stagnant water there. Overripe fruit plus water plus sunshine plus time equals fermentation. And in case you're not aware, fermentation doesn't smell all that pleasant.
I lived in Spain for a couple of years, back in my twenties. I was serving as a missionary for my church. One of the cities in which I served was Jerez de la Frontera. It's a place that's known for two things: motorcycles and fortified wine. The entire city smells like fermented grapes. For a non-drinker, that smell was an assault on the sense of smell.
This apricot tree smells similar.
Thing is, that time in Jerez was beautiful. I have such fond memories of that city and the people who live in it. And that scent was part of it.
So when I pass by the tree, my nose wrinkles up, but my soul soars for a moment. I remember old friends and old nemeses, familiar but exotic locations, and the smell of decay in the air.
And I rejoice.
Maybe this time, as painful and fraught as it has been, will be similar, once twenty or more years have passed (or maybe less than that--I am learning a bit as I get older). Maybe I'll taste something like rot and rusted metal. Maybe I'll have a sense of heat prickles all over my head. Maybe I'll pass by something that will remind me of the time I did chemo.
And maybe I'll smile.
----------
In our next post, we will go into great depth and detail surrounding the exact taste and texture of the radioactive sugar water they give me before my PET scans.
Next post.
All good stuff.
I'm sure I've mentioned it, but getting up to walk most mornings feels like an impossible task. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to just lie back down and sleep. Forget everything in the opiate of the little death. What out there could possibly compare to the bliss of five more minutes?
Then I (sometimes) manage to pry myself out from under the covers. I get on some gym clothes. I greet Linus, my canine companion, who at this point is going bonkers because he knows we're about to go for a walk. I prep myself for what's to come.
The morning is almost invariably beautiful, regardless of the weather. That's one of the things about living in Utah, snuggled up against the mountains. It's very difficult to have a morning that isn't in some way extraordinary.
 |
| I mean.... |
I've become a boring walker.
It used to be that I would range all over, looking for new trails, new places to explore, new friends to greet. I've found myself turned around backward many a time, only to enjoy the process of finding myself again.
Now, I walk around my block three times. I go about a mile and a half in thirty minutes, give or take a minute or two in either direction. I see the same houses, the same people, the same dogs (sorry, Linus, but they ALL want to sniff your butt) over and over and over again.
I do this for a reason. Maybe it's not a great reason, but it's my reason, and I refuse to apologize for it. Even though out of the last 10 walks, I've done three laps 9 of those times, I walk around the block because it means I don't put myself in a place where I can't make it back home without hurting myself.
It's a real concern. The razor's edge between I'm doing okay and I am no longer doing okay has gotten more and more infinitesimally narrow as I've gone through chemo. Sometimes it happens in between one breath and the next. Breathe in. Everything's cool. Breathe out. JUST KIDDING; NO, IT'S NOT!
 |
| Except for Laurence Fishburne. He's always cool. |
So, I walk in circles. That feels like a metaphor for my recent experiences, but I'm too tired to parse it out any further than that. See, I just got back from walking. I am knackered.
 |
| For all you non-Anglophiles out there. |
One of the things I encounter on my walk (three times, because, you know) is a particular apricot tree. It's currently laden with fruit, and almost every day I think about grabbing one of the ripe ones and biting into it. I don't know that the owner of the tree (who I happen to know) would miss it or mind, but since I don't have permission, I refrain.
Another part of the reason I don't reach out my hand is that, for the past few days, there's a smell of decay when I pass by that tree. Some of the apricots have fallen to the ground and started to rot. Some of them are by the curb, and have fallen into the stagnant water there. Overripe fruit plus water plus sunshine plus time equals fermentation. And in case you're not aware, fermentation doesn't smell all that pleasant.
I lived in Spain for a couple of years, back in my twenties. I was serving as a missionary for my church. One of the cities in which I served was Jerez de la Frontera. It's a place that's known for two things: motorcycles and fortified wine. The entire city smells like fermented grapes. For a non-drinker, that smell was an assault on the sense of smell.
This apricot tree smells similar.
Thing is, that time in Jerez was beautiful. I have such fond memories of that city and the people who live in it. And that scent was part of it.
So when I pass by the tree, my nose wrinkles up, but my soul soars for a moment. I remember old friends and old nemeses, familiar but exotic locations, and the smell of decay in the air.
And I rejoice.
Maybe this time, as painful and fraught as it has been, will be similar, once twenty or more years have passed (or maybe less than that--I am learning a bit as I get older). Maybe I'll taste something like rot and rusted metal. Maybe I'll have a sense of heat prickles all over my head. Maybe I'll pass by something that will remind me of the time I did chemo.
And maybe I'll smile.
----------
In our next post, we will go into great depth and detail surrounding the exact taste and texture of the radioactive sugar water they give me before my PET scans.
Next post.
You gave me goose bumps at the end there, Ben. Good one! Of course you will smile.
ReplyDeleteI think it's smart to walk in circles right now, for exactly the reason you mentioned -- that way, you are never very far from home. When I was first staring to run again after 20 years on the couch, I did the same thing -- ran in circles around a nearby park -- for the same reason. The miles count, whether you are going in circles or even staying in the same place (like on a treadmill or an elliptical trainer). It all counts. Even laying in your bed and *thinking* about walking is better than doing nothing! So keep your chin up, keep walking when you can, and accept that there might be days when you can't. It's all OK. You are gonna come through this intact.