A Different Kind of Slow and Steady

Three years ago, my friend Krista-Lee wrote this:

Some things are just too hard to write about when they are happening. When you are in the midst of chaos, heartbreak, survival, and trying to find some order to life, you just can’t put it all into words.

I’ve written a lot of words about living with Catherine living with cancer for 6 years, words written in the thick of it all; but it’s only in recent years, with the gift of time, that I’ve been to be able to gain any clarity about what really happened, and what really happened next.

This morning, Christmas Eve, I joined Lisa for her regular morning workout, a workout that turned out to be a 12 Days of Christmas-style workout; if you know the song, you can imagine the mechanics of it. Here were the movements:

• 1 Hex Bar Deadlift 205/135
• 2 Push-Ups
• 3 Barbell Front Squats 135/95
• 4 Bent-Over DB Rows
• 5 Dead Bugs
• 6 Romanian Deadlifts (Db or Kb)
• 7 Reverse Lunges (per side, load optional)
• 8 DB Floor Press
• 9 KB Swings
• 10 Plank Shoulder Taps
• 11 Barbell Strict Press
• 12m Farmers Carry Steps

It was hard, by far and away the hardest workout I’ve done in the five months since I broke my elbow. But I did it. We did it, together with Lisa’s coach Matt.

Working out that hard, at this point, was something I never could have imagined when, back in post-operative August, I could barely manage the logistics of peeing, let alone lifting a dumb bell.

How did I get here? Incremental progress, every day, every week. 

Three-times-daily physio, at home, during September and October. Back to the gym, starting scaled, building. Learning how to listen to my body, and being willing to stretch it beyond what seemed possible in the moment. But not too far.

This morning, when I got to “10 Plank Shoulder Taps,” I was absolutely certain that I couldn’t do them, as I’d yet to support my weight with my injured arm. Matt adapted the movement so I could just lift my good arm off the ground, then quickly return it. But then, after 4 reps, I forgot that I couldn’t do it. And off I went.

When Catherine was living with cancer, we knew for almost six years that, at some point, it would kill her; the only question was when. We tried to inject as much levity into those years as we could: we celebrated six sets of birthdays, we travelled, we went to the beach, we celebrated Christmas six times. But, slowly and steadily, an invisible clock was ticking, a progression toward an inevitable sad ending.

Living that way for so long has a way of getting to you. “Hope” is a necessary fuel, but holding space for hope is exhausting, and it gradually eats away at you until it’s more masking than truth. It’s impossible to imagine the future, and so you stop trying. Acceptance is a balm, but it’s also a ceiling.

What I’ve learned, in the six years since, is a different kind of slow and steady, one where there’s forward movement, faith in the every-little-bit, belief in the future, and planning for it. 

Learning to ride horses. Psychotherapy. Working out in the gym. Performing improv. Physiotherapy. Helping Olivia rebuild. Loving, in all its infinite joys and challenges. 

Progress is neither automatic, nor always delightful, but, boy oh boy, do I prefer the kinetic sway of healing, building, and growing to the grinding attempt to keep heads above water.

My wish for all of you is that you find your own slow and steady, that it moves you forward, that you can start to trust the light.