February

 to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body.

February 1st, 2021

As I slip into my car in the early morning light, my body tenses as it meets the frigid interior. I sit still, willing for the tiny space to warm quickly. I grit my teeth, grab my ice scraper from the passenger seat, and climb back outside to chip away at the icy surface stretching across my windshield. 

Once I arrive at work, I am disappointed that my toes still sting from the cold, despite my wool socks and sturdy boots. Unfortunately, the heat blasting from the dashboard doesn’t seem to quite meet the lowest part of my body. I will my blood flow to increase to my toes, to rush each one with a tingling warmth. 

I care for my body. I try to keep it warm in the winter - to wear mittens when I grip the cold steering wheel, to moisturize my skin when it cracks, to stay inside and practice mediation and fill my lungs with clean breaths. I trust my body. But at times, I worry about what's going on beneath the surface, feeling almost hurt that things may be brewing inside without my knowing. After all, my body has betrayed me before, what’s stopping it from doing it again? 

Yet, I care for my body. I show up for it every day. I praise it for keeping score. 

Square breathing. 

Back in the spring, my sister taught me this technique over the phone when I had called her in a panic because I was convinced I had caught coronavirus. 

Inhale for four seconds. 

Hold for four seconds. 

Exhale for four seconds. 

Repeat. 

I try to practice this when my body feels overwhelmed. 

February 4th, 2021

I lay on my back as the table carries my body through the scanner. 

Breathe in demands an automated voice. 

hold. your. breath. 

I suddenly forget all of my breathing practices. I don’t know how to breathe in. I just abruptly stop my breathing, fearing any movement I make lying beneath this machine will produce a faulty image. My body glides forward, the scanner whirring, all my limbs feeling unnaturally tingly and warm as the IV contrast rushes through my veins. I feel dizzy and lightheaded.

Breathe. commands the voice.

Then, I remember. 

Exhale for four seconds.

February 5th, 2021

I come down with a cold. Unlike last spring, I’m not worried about covid anymore. I have too many other things on my mind. But I call into work and order a covid test just in case. Over the next couple of days, I allow my body to rest. I greet my sore throat with smoothies, nestle under a weighted blanket, and lose myself in an old childhood show that has just hit Netflix. I’m surprised by how quickly the cold moves through my system - likely because I was able to take the time to slow my body and give it the rest it needs, instead of trying to push ahead like normal. 

February 9th, 2021

“It’s so nice when people come back to visit - we don’t often see that!” my chemo nurse beams at me. “Do you still have your pink boxing gloves?” another asks. 

I smile beneath my mask. I can’t believe they remembered. 

“Of course!” I tell them, making a mental note to text my sister asking her to find them in my closet at home. 

“Wow, you were nineteen then - just a kid,” my oncologist says quietly, shaking her head as she looks up from her clipboard. I say goodbye, expressing my gratitude for being able to see everyone, and walk back through the empty chemo room, sighing with relief to not see any patients getting infusions. I don’t think my body could handle seeing that today. 

That night I post two pictures to social media, one of me in 2014 right before I was about to get lymph nodes extracted, smiling at the camera wearing a pink boxing glove with one tiny area of writing on it. The second picture is one my sister sent me that night of both boxing gloves pulled from their current place in my closet. The gloves are covered in writing from loved ones, and I feel grateful for the protection they gave me years ago. I am determined to keep them with me forever. 

 

February 13th, 2021

I come home to find a package addressed to me sitting on the table. Ripping it open excitedly, I pull out the first book I have ever pre-ordered in my life, because I simply couldn't wait to read it. It’s called Between Two Kingdoms by Suleika Jaouad. I have been following Suleika since quarantine, and have fallen in love with both her writing and her story. At age 22, she was diagnosed with leukemia. This book is her debut memoir about survivorship and existing between living in the kingdom of the well and unwell.  

I begin reading it that night, and quickly realize I will need to take this book chapter by chapter. Suleika’s writing is so powerful and raw and heartbreaking as she describes her experiences of feeling sick, being diagnosed, and what chemo feels like in her body. 

My body has kept score, and as I’m reading Suleika’s experiences, it remembers illness and treatment like it was yesterday. I shut the book and close my eyes. 

Inhale for four seconds. 

Hold for four seconds. 

Exhale for four seconds. 

I feel grateful to be reading Suleika’s story, and I see a lot of my own journey/healing/self reflected in her words. I’m eager to keep reading - just perhaps at a more mindful pace, and maybe with some deep breathing in between. 

February 18th, 2021

A cool tingling meets my skin. Yet this time, I welcome the cold sensation. 

Inhale for four seconds. 

Hold for four seconds.

A pinch in my upper left arm. 

Exhale for four seconds.

“Congrats!” says the man as he hands me back my card, now with two dates scrawled across it. 

“You’re fully vaccinated!”

I walk to my car, feeling the familiar blast of heat as I turn the key in the ignition. 

I exhale. 

And I thank my body.

For showing up, for persevering, and for keeping score.  

(words and thoughts accompanied by my February Spotify playlist)