Writing Through Cancer

and the body, what about the body?
Sometimes it is my favorite child,
uncivilized. . .

And sometimes my body disgusts me.
Filling and emptying it disgusts me. . . .

This long struggle to be at home
in the body, this difficult friendship.

By Jane Kenyon (From: “Cages”)

Today I’m at odds with my body.  Or perhaps it’s at odds with me.

It began on Friday, a day too beautiful to spend inside.  Nevertheless, I sat at my desk all morning, as I usually do, reading students’ written submissions, making my comments, then shifting to preparations for a workshop.  After lunch, I’d had enough sitting, so I put on my sneakers and drove to the San Diego Zoo where I walked for much of the afternoon,  pausing only briefly to watch the many animals housed there.  As I made my way back to my car and drove home, I remembered I still had the house to vacuum before dinner.  Ah well, I reasoned, I’ll hurry and get it done in the next hour.  That was the beginning of my downfall.

As I tackled the living room carpet with the gusto of a whirling dervish, I felt a twinge in my back.  Ignoring it, I soldiered on, chiding myself for letting the household cleaning pile up for the past busy weeks.  I tugged at the vacuum and moved into the kitchen and dining room, occasionally aware that the twinge in my back had morphed into something akin to pain.  I pushed the irritation aside and kept on, determined to finish the job before me.  (You’ve guessed what’s coming by now, I’m sure.)  I did, rushing through the bedrooms and bathrooms, put the vacuum away and began cooking dinner.  It wasn’t until we settled down to watch the end of the first season of “House of Cards,” that I acknowledged that my back was, in fact, aching, but I soon forgot, riveted to the screen and the ongoing suspense of the series.  It was only when I rose from my chair to head to bed that I had trouble standing.  Ouch!

I’m well-known for ignoring the complaints of my body.  Despite the medical history I have, I like to think of myself as energetic, strong–you know, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or at least, tackle them with agility and determination.  From time to time, however, and, as I age, more frequently, my body reminds me that I may need to impose some revisions on my self-image.  It’s a change I am hesitant to embrace.  This long struggle to be at home /in the body, this difficult friendship.

I admit it.  Today I’m in pain.  Writing this post has been an exercise of agony.  I’ve stood, sat, stretched, applied ice, walked around the house, but none of those activities made writing any easier.  My lower back insists on making its presence felt, and my ability to think, write, or even to make conversation with my husband is severely limited.  Do you know what I mean?

I’m stubborn, but I’m crying “Uncle!”  My body has spoken, and it’s a very loud, “No!”  It’s a lesson I continue to resist, but sooner or later, our body changes, betrays or fails us.  When it does, it’s difficult to admit  we’ve taken our physical health for granted—even denied its inevitable aging.  The body, in illness or decline, is often the subject of poetry:  Jane Kenyon’s “Cages,” or  Marilyn Hacker’s, “Cancer Winter,”where  she referred to her body as “self-betraying.”  But it is May Swenson’s poem, “Question,” that has my attention today.  She addresses her body as “my horse, my hound,” one which has carried her through life, but she realizes she cannot take for granted.

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift
how will I hide?

(From: New & Selected Things Taking Place)

This week, write about your body.  Pay tribute or complaint.  Write about its aches or pains or a time when you felt as if your body betrayed you.  How have you come to terms with a “new” normal?  How have you made peace with an altered or changing body?  What sometimes makes your relationship with your body into a “difficult friendship?”