Today began with a big, giant needle stuck into my belly fat, inserting tiny pellets of hormone blocker that will release over the next few weeks. A needle so big that the doctor who administers it reminds me to close my eyes each time, so I don’t see the needle.
And so I went to yoga. My safe place. My warm place. The place where my body knows just what to do, where everything is familiar, where everything is always the same and that is so comforting. My sternum though, began to tantrum. In small bursts that took my breath away, the pain radiated through my chest bones, bringing me to my knees. We got through the standing series and then my body joined my protesting sternum. My tummy ached. I actually got up and walked out because I thought I was going to throw up. I looked in the mirror and saw the colour drain from my face, my freckles popping out of my pale cheeks like someone splashed paint across my face. But there was no barfing, so I hauled myself back into the hot room. The teacher knew something was up.
When you’re an experienced practitioner, and things aren’t going how you want them to go, it’s more mental than physical almost always. And its OK to sit out of postures.
I knew she was talking to me. And sit out I did. My belly. My sternum. The tears behind my eyes. What. The. Fuck.
It’s your broken heart….. Your broken sternum.
As soon as she said it, I knew she was right. As soon as she said it, my body relaxed. No wonder. My broken heart, my broken sternum. No one knows why my sternum radiates pain. Test after scan after test after scan, and we come up with nothing. And just like that, the yoga teacher tells me what’s wrong. It’s your broken heart, your broken sternum. The tears came then, from behind my eyes and from inside my broken heart.
My heart is broken because they have to shoot me up with anti-hormones, and it hurts, and it stops my period, and I miss my period.
My heart is broken because I miss my period, and I miss my period because it meant I was healthy, it meant all was well, it meant I was functioning. It meant I could get pregnant, if I wanted to.
My heart is broken because my babies are in someone else’s body, because the cancer stole my ability to give them the very first thing they needed from their mama: a place to grow big enough to withstand the harshness of the world.
My heart is broken because I sit and listen to my friends tell their cancer stories, and I love them so much that I am overcome with the desire to make it all go away, to wrap my arms around them until it is OK, even though I know it is useless to tell them it’s all going to be alright, even though I know it’s more meaningful to just listen and be together, I still so badly wish I had a magic wand.
My heart is broken for what could have been, for the carefree way I related to my health, pre-cancer.
My heart is broken because my babies are in someone else’s belly, and I miss them more deeply than I could have ever known I could miss someone I’ve never met.
A million reasons, my heart is broken. I am OK, though. One can be OK with a broken heart. A shattered heart, even. And love is like glue, and I’ve got lots of that. One can settle into a broken heart, see the light reflected through the shards, know the world this way, be wise from inside a broken heart. My heart is broken, and my sternum aches, reminding me, again and again, how broken it feels, how badly the centre of me has been burned, how much I need to attend to that trauma, how urgent it is to heal. My heart is broken, and it is reminding me, to peer at the world from this place, from this vantage point, from where I stand. For it’s all I’ve got.
Sometimes doctor’s don’t have the answer. Sometimes yoga teachers do. Sometimes our hearts knew all along. It’s your broken heart…. your broken sternum.”