It’s five o’clock in the morning and I’m up and thinking of calling my friend Jenn who I know is also up, or just jumping on one of the boys’ beds and waking them up. I have this weird energy – yes, energy – and I’m not sure if I’m looking for someone to play with, celebrate with, or just tell.
Energy. Me. The two haven’t coexisted, coincided, been in the same room together in months. Almost twelve months, to be exact.
Going home, despite the reentry period of utter anxiety, bitchiness, cold, and confusion, (Where are the cups? Why has Rob hidden the f-ing cups? Oh, yeah. Duh. There they are.), fat attacks, and worry (Are the boys ok? Are they eating? Who’s cooking? Oh, God. Maybe they're starving! Followed by, “Jesus, Susan. If they’re starving they’re stupid. And you can’t fix stupid.”), has done me a world of good.
A big, bright, brand new world of good.
I told this to Rob. Actually, I texted him.
He didn’t text back. He called. He was just so happy for me. Probably – and hopefully – for himself, too. It would be good to finally have his wife “back,” if not physically (yet) at least mentally and emotionally.
I’ve been gone for him and for me, for far too long.
The Saturday before I returned to Virginia – please note my not referring to it as home, progress! – Rob was golfing. I was puttering. Ironing. Chatting on the phone with my cousin Lisa. Organizing my collection of eight thousand books, selecting my absolute favorites, and giving the rest to my friends Sabina and Julie to enjoy, and trying on my dresses. First with Spanx. Then without. Didn’t work either way.
And then the puttering sputtered to crying. And I did something I’ve done only once before.
I reached out to an Instagram influencer. Yes, I am a cliche!! Through my tears and with my incredibly poor texting skills, I tapped out a note to a woman I follow. She’s 66. At 62, she decided to take control of her health. She was overweight and had battled diabetes – the bad kind – her entire life. Four years later, she looks like I used to look. In my 40s, when Stu was so sick, even into my early 50s. Muscular. Fit. Healthy.
Able to wear every dress in her closet.
My note said simply, “I’m going through the most difficult year of my life. I need to reclaim my body. I’m so tired, and tired of being so tired. But I don’t know where to start. Thank you for any advice you can give me.”
The most difficult year of my life? Wasn’t that when Stu was sick and dying? Yes, for lots of reasons. And no, for just as many.
Yes, because my husband was dying. Death was the light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t want that light, but nobody asked me what I wanted. I did what I had to do. I took care of my kids as best I could, and focused the rest of my energies on Stu.
I did it by taking care of myself. I went out to my “exercise studio,” a converted corn crib with no heat and no air conditioning, every morning. In the hundred degree heat, and the ten degree cold. 60 minutes. Every. Damn. Day. I was in prize fighter shape. I had to be. Because I wasn’t going down, Stu wasn’t going down, and my kids weren’t losing their dad, without a fight.
So what does that tell me? It tells me that somewhere, in the recesses of my brain, I do know where to start.
But this year also ranks up there on the difficulty scale. It is and has been just the worst. Is it because I’m older and have less energy? I’m sure that’s part of it. But the other, larger part, is and has been, the uncertainty. The overwhelm. The dark at the end of the tunnel. And the fact that my husband, my partner, my rock, isn’t and cannot be with me. The person I trust the most, the one who talks me in off the ledge and calms my fears, isn’t here. As a result, the fear has paralyzed me. Me, the one who can do laundry, burn dinner, and improperly balance my checkbook all at the same time, now sits for hours at a clip, curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket, lost in a book, waiting for the ax to fall.
Where is my energy? My fight? Of course, I’m fat. I’ve been unable to move.
I sent that note to @Dolphine, cried my way over to my weights, and reintroduced myself. I did two bicep curls and wanted a nap. But I didn’t stop. And the more I persisted, the more I remembered. The reps, the sets, the “which exercise works which muscle group.”
I also cried. Seeing myself in the reflection of the glass, plump and exhausted. Feeling my muscle memory claw its way back, stunned at being called upon after so long.
But I didn’t stop.
I used those weights until I was certain I’d be crippled the next morning, and I’ve used them every morning since. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. I see it. It’s coming.
And if it turns out to be a train, I plan to be ready to take it.
Despite the fact that I’m a writer, there are no words to express my gratitude for all of you who’ve chosen to make this journey with me. Recently, my friend Barbara wrote and said “This is a book. I’m invested already and wait for your posts.” Maybe it will be a book. Maybe it will simply be my lifeline, and you will have been all the people pulling me into the boat or tugging me to shore. I love you for that. Thank you. Until next time…. xo
I’m so happy to read this! And yes of course I was up!! And yes you’ve got fight in you!! Keep going and next time call me and maybe you can talk me into picking my weights back up!
So happy to hear you are feeling better!