Life in the slow lane

Before starting radiotherapy last week I pledged to myself that I would use my new daily treatment routine and visits to Brighton as an opportunity to start sea swimming (or at least sea dipping - a first step towards sea swimming).

But it hasn't happened. Each morning, having been measured up, marked up and irradiated, I have gone down to the beach. And each day I have found a different reason not to get in the water. There are no parking spots. The tide is too far in or too far out. The waves are too big (I am a little wary of the sea). I am too wiped-out post treatment.

At first I berated myself for my inability to follow through on my commitment. For bending to the tyranny of 'too'. But then I decided to be a little gentler with myself and instead of focussing on what I haven't done, stripped back my goal to make it feel more achievable and fitting for me right now. All things considered.

And so I recommitted to simply getting into the water at my local lido, each morning, before my treatment, for the next two weeks. No requirement to swim. Just the routine of a daily immersion. A cold water baptism.

At the start of this year I was fit and active. I felt robust and strong. But over the last six months that strength has slowly ebbed away from me, with a treatment schedule that has stripped back my vitality and left me feeling weakened. A treatment schedule that has seen my body sliced, poisoned and burnt, and, although I have weathered it relatively well and tried to maintain some basic level of activity throughout, I feel, for now, a depleted version of myself. But I also know that one of the best ways I can help myself in recovery - mentally and physically - is to exercise, and so I am committed to getting my body moving again.

I started this Thursday, with my first post-diagnosis-surgery-chemo chilly morning dip. The pool was set up for the early morning lane-swim. More dry robes than I could shake a stick at, and five lanes, ranked in ascending order of speed. Keen swimmers, keener swimmers, keenest swimmers - many of whom were clearly training for something bigger. In other times I would have comfortably slotted into the faster lanes, challenging myself to try to match the pace of the best swimmers.

But on this morning I consciously took my place in the slowest lane. Anyone who knows me well will know that did not come easily. But this was about meeting my body where it is now, not where it was. It was about a dip, not a swim. It was about exploration, not achievement. And I had no idea how my body was going to respond to exercise. I needed the security of being near the edge, knowing that the solidity of concrete was within easy reach.

The initial chill of the early morning water as it enveloped my altered body was simply thrilling. It stole my breath, shocking my systems awake after yet another near sleepless night. Breathing deep to relax my spasming chest muscles and regulate my snatched respiration, I felt instantly held and invigorated. I felt alive. If I had got out straight away, I would have achieved my goal.

But I didn't get out.

Instead I started to move my limbs through the progression of movements that together comprise breast stroke. But, although the movements were familiar, the body was not. It felt alien. Other. As if I was wearing somebody else's shape and form. My left arm and shoulder did not move in the easy, fluid way they used to. My scar stretched and burned. My left arm felt persistently heavy. The cold exaggerated the numb hum of fingers, toes and lips still affected by lingering post chemo neuropathy. My lungs felt hard and small, snatching my breath. I had four leaden limbs. And although my head was still urging me to try to power through, the body was unresponsive. Bone weary before it had even started.

Instantly, my internal rolodex of emotional responses was on fast flip. Shock and panic at the degree to which my body felt compromised quickly turned to frustration and resistance and a drive to push harder, to make it work, whatever the cost. But then came a tender softening. A remembering that this is about the long journey, not the quick wins. Yes, there is an ache for what is lost. But there is also an ache for what is to be regained. And a recognition that building back better and stronger takes time, patience and commitment. One step at a time. Starting from where you are - not where you were.

Over months of treatment my body has become medicalised and (albeit for a good cause) in many ways brutalised. It has at times felt like it has been the property of others – surgeons, oncologists, radiographers. A dismembered and diseased lump of flesh requiring blasting, rather than part of a sentient, feeling whole.

This past week, daily radiotherapy has felt a little like a sophisticated form of target practice. I have been (gently) pushed and prodded, a millimetre to the left, to the right, down the bed, up the bed. Three tiny tattoos serve as way markers on my torso, from which to-the-millimetre measurements are taken to guide the beam. Up to this stage the process feels reassuring precise – and yet then somehow ironically makeshift as they mark the target in fat black marker pen.

I am not saying that I am not grateful for the treatment I have received, and will continue to receive in the coming months. I am of course deeply grateful, particularly this year when so many have had their diagnoses or treatments delayed thanks to Covid. I have in many ways been lucky. But now, six months in, I also long to reclaim my body. To meet it with the tenderness it deserves, and to start the journey of nurturing and gently repairing it. Immersing myself in the slow lane is as good a place as any to start that process, one stroke at a time.