Courage At 0.5 MPH
Courage at 0.5 MPH
I’m a retired physician and empty nester. Basically, a woman with degrees, hot flashes, and a deep commitment to self-deprecation.
Wanting to write essays about life’s interruptions, I imagined blogging was a lot like journaling — except with fonts and public humiliation.
The spirited internal debate between my psyche and me lasted years. I was terrified of what people would think. Should I post? Would it be good enough? Would it be meaningful?
Unexpectedly, life threw me a plot twist. I was diagnosed with cancer. Melanoma.
Gut-punched, I couldn’t breathe, let alone move. My fears pivoted from trivial concerns about others’ opinions to that of my own survival. Timelines became immediate and finite.
How was I to summon the courage to take the next steps and face this diagnosis, much less start a blog?
Then I remembered a particular moment in my sister’s journey that served as inspiration.
At turtle pace
Over ten years ago, my eldest sister was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. (She would later beat Stage 4 lymphoma). I went to help her after her first major cancer surgery.
The day after the procedure, I visited her in the hospital. Peeking into the room, I found her sitting up in bed, reading a newspaper.
“Hey, girl! Good morning!” Then I blurted out, “Why do you have makeup on?” Surveying her perfectly penciled eyebrows, mascara-enhanced eyelashes, and rosy lip gloss, I continued, “You look too healthy for just having surgery!”
I gave her a careful hug, navigating a web of bandages and lines attached to her body.
She laughed, then winced. “I never leave the house without putting my face on,” she replied, shifting her aching body.
“Well, as a doctor, I can tell you, you look so good, your medical team is going to think you are ready to run a marathon,” I laughed. Her make-up couldn’t disguise her underlying pallor, but I thought a white lie would be a forgiven sin.
“The doctor was already here and did say I looked good,” she replied. “Not a marathon, but she wanted me to start walking today. So, let’s go.”
My eyebrows arched. “Okay,” I replied, stretching the word into several syllables to register my concern.
I forgot I was dealing with my big sister — forged steel wrapped in a terry cloth robe.
“Let’s get my silent friend ready to go,” she said, referring to the IV pole. We gathered the intravenous lines, secured her unfashionable medical gown and started off. The three of us.
We exited her room and slowly rolled down the starkly lit hallway to an abandoned treadmill.
“A treadmill?” I exclaimed. “Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”
“I don’t care how long or slow I go, but I’m going to do this,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I was sensing things could go wrong in a hurry.
“I’m sure.” Hugging her bandages gently, she lifted herself up on the dusty machine and dialed the speed to 0.5 mph. In soft, well-worn slippers, she shuffled through fifteen grueling minutes, commenting that she might lose to a turtle if she raced one.
“Did it!” she announced, drenched in sweat. After giving her a triumphant thumbs up, we hobbled back to her room.
I helped her back to bed. Exhausted, she fell asleep quickly, having won that day’s battle. Before I left, she stirred. “Tomorrow, we’ll do twenty!”
Courage takes a stand
I was astounded yet not surprised. My sister had faced many tests in her life including raising her three children as a single parent.
Her surgery and diagnosis could have paralyzed her. Instead, she acted. As she always did.
The memory of her defiant walk gave me strength as I faced my own cancer odyssey — receiving a definitive diagnosis, undergoing multiple surgeries, tolerating restricted recoveries, and finally, obtaining clear margins.
With the sense of time pushing me, and at long last, I confronted my writing fear — publishing my new blog, “Between Business Cards.”
Like my big sister, I’m slowly moving forward — baby stepping at 0.5 mph.
9 Comments
Richard J. Lenz
Love your blog!
Wendy Lenz
Thank you! Did something resonate with you?
sheila holleger
A most impressive first entry. Like our journey through life – each new day is another page in the book of our life – we keep writing and reading and eventually our book ends. Some people’s life books are read once and put on a shelf to be recalled by only a few as they had not made a true difference to many. Other life books become classics. Their people left a permanent mark – hopefully in good ways, although some, lke Hitler, are left as a reminder of what not to do in life. Yours, I have a feeling, will be a classic tht will give hope to some, be a guide to others, and a cherished momento to all who have been blessed to have you in their life. Way to go, Wendy. You are living your mother’s mantra: What have you done for God and your country lately? You can answer with pride that you have valued and lived each day to its fullest. 🙂
Wendy Lenz
Wow! What amazing feedback! Thank you, girl! Have you considered writing???
Wendy Lenz
Your comment really meant so much to me — I re-read it more than once. You’ve always had a gift for insight and expression. I love the image of our lives as books, some becoming cherished classics. Thank you for reminding us of Mom’s mantra, too. I can only hope I’m doing her proud. Hugs!
Bonnie Dixln
I love the image of a woman with fuzzy slippers on a treadmill. It sounds dangerous,but with a cancer diagnosis we can afford to take chances! So glad you decided to share your viewpoint with the world.
Wendy Lenz
Great point! I was more thinking about the pain in her chest after the mastectomy. She went at turtle pace, but was definitely determined to move because the medical staff encouraged her to “get up after surgery and walk”! That image of her continues to inspire me!
Thanks for reading, B! Means the world to me!
Nancy Marsh
Wendy,you are a trooper .05 mph is great moving forward bunny slippers on and ready.
Not to be too self help guru but one day at a time everyday recovery and healing is a journey we all travel.
I have faith in you and enjoy reading your blog too recovery.
THE NURSE WHO LOVED WORKING WITH YOU.
Wendy Lenz
Nancy, thank you! I loved working with you, too. I have a post that is dropping next week about grit and I see you in that story. It is one day at a time. Sometimes when one is tangled up in the surviving and the unknown, it’s hard to remember that for one self! And it is a lifeline to have friends who remember it for you!