Vicodin withdrawal has left me itchy and restless. And actually that’s a good thing. I don’t need near as much sleep and I’m actually getting work done.
I took off on my ’89 chrome Robinson BMX this afternoon and headed down the Greenway trail to see if my pecs could handle it. No problemo! Rode up this beautiful bridge.
I had on an old, baggy T and, boy, was the wind through it sublime. Wept like a little baby, some kinda desperate joy I guess. Have no idea why I think I look dorkier on a 3-wheel recumbent than a bike that was made for a kid. But it sure felt good.
My legs just want to spin. My heart wants to rev. My lungs want to rake in big gulps of air. And my brain? It wants me to sail down hills and struggle up climbs, to balance along the white line that divides the pedestrian path from the bikes. This is how I have healed in the past. Perhaps this is how I’ll survive. I hope biking isn’t taken from me. I’d go nuts.
My friend, Rebecca, sent me an interesting article about Post Traumatic Growth in cancer patients, and how positive thinking/action can affect the outcome, extending life for longer than those who simply give up. I also read a book by a woman who was from the other camp, a sort of anti-pink-ribbon-cancer-is-a-gift mentality.
Guess I’m somewhere in the middle. It’s generally easier to be positive, because my cancer appears controllable. But I’m not kidding myself. There are just some things beyond our grasp and ability. And frankly, this gift is kinda lame, albeit non-refundable. Sometimes I can’t help but get down when I try to lift or reach for something that was so doable before. This leads to the problematic: “Must be positive, growing new cancers with negative thinking—Aughhhhhh!” Which is of course ridiculous.
Tomorrow we’re off to the cancer center to see what’s in my chemo sweepstakes package. Will post as soon as I can.