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I was going to stop by the internet today to tell you about the very disappointing failure that was February 10.
About how I showed up for my appointment, so excited in my tracksuit, and Study Lady was just shocked to see me at the office! “Are you sure your appointment is today?” she asked.
I was sure. She should have been, too, since we had discussed this day no fewer than three times the previous week.
But evidently, you can’t just write down a patient’s appointment on a Post-It. You have to actually enter it into the computer system, and she neglected to do that…among other things. (I will not rant about Study Lady. I will not rant about Study Lady. Study Lady is an idiot who cannot handle her job. I will not rant about Study Lady.)
February 10 was a disaster. It was the most hysterical day I can remember having in months. I covered my tracksuit in tears that day, and I sat in that office for hours waiting for the Study Staff to get its shit together.
It never did, though, and I went home that night without drugs, without even a placebo, and with a day of my life fully wasted. And I was probably very, very dehydrated because of the tears.
So then I had to wait until February 12 to try again. Two more days, on top of those two more weeks, on top of the two years it’s already been. No big thing.
I returned to the doctor’s office two days later, again wearing my Get Well ASAP Tracksuit, and this time with slightly more trepidation.
This time, I decided not to put any pressure on the appointment. It was just another day at the doctor.
And this time, I got the drug, or the placebo, and though the day was long (an hour and a half of prep, an hour getting the infusion, a half hour of getting “flushed” with saline solution afterward, followed by six hours sitting in a room by myself being “monitored,” i.e. a poor girl coming in every so often to make sure the drugcebo didn’t kill me on the spot), it all happened.
“You should hopefully start feeling better in about a week to three weeks,” the doctor told me without much conviction (it’s fine).
A few days went by.
I was miserable for most of the long weekend. Plenty of pain, sleepless nights, an inability to leave the apartment and those damn night sweats. At one point I went to the grocery store across the street, and another time I got a pedicure with my friend, which was awesome. But other than that, I was cooped up and cranky.
And not healthy yet.
All I wanted on Monday was to try and go to yoga. I set my alarm crazy early, hoping to make it to a 9:30 AM class with my beloved Bethany.
It didn’t happen.
By Monday night, I was convinced I had gotten the dreaded placebo and this has all been a bunch of bullshit, even though we’re just a few days in. (My patience is admirable, don’t you think?)
I woke up today, Tuesday, February 18, with the “just get through the day” mentality I’ve succumbed to most mornings throughout the past year.
But maybe part of me was optimistic, because before I left the apartment, I managed to find a pair of shorts, a tank top and a sports bra, and I threw them in my bag. It’s been a while since I’ve seen those items.
I went to work early and had the busiest day I’ve had in a while. It’s hard to get in a productive groove when you have to haul ass across the office to the bathroom every 15 minutes.
By 5:15 PM, I was ready to leave.
There was a yoga class at my happy place, Lyons Den Power Yoga, at 6 PM with Terri, a teacher I adore. She was the last teacher I took class with, back on January 7, before things got really bad. That was my last “workout.”
So I got in a cab and I went downtown.
I walked up the three flights of stairs to the studio and was pathetically winded by the time I reached the top floor. My body is in one sad, unmuscular, uncardiovascularly-able state these days.
I went into the studio and was excited Patrick, the assistant studio manager and one of the instructors, actually remembered me.
I changed into my workout clothes and was surprised I remembered how to wiggle and writhe my way into my sports bra.
I set up a mat in the toasty room, right by the door, and laid down until class started. Terri knows about the whole Crohn’s situation, and she knows that if I run out mid-class, I’d rather not explain why. (In person at least…I do my explaining for the whole internet to read.)
Class started. I was nervous at first, and everything felt super weird. My legs were shaky, my toes felt miles away (can’t even come close to touching ’em anymore!) and one chaturanga felt like 300 push-ups. I tipped over in tree pose (my favorite), my standby crow pose was less than graceful, eagle pose was absolutely not happening and I did an elegant faceplant when I decided to attempt side crow for the first time.
But I never had to leave class.
I managed to stop thinking about my stomach for a while, and I let myself relax and get all yoga-fied.
I remembered, albeit briefly and possibly for just a fleeting 60 minutes, how good it feels to feel good.
It wasn’t long before I was flopped down in savasana, crying those little happy tears I’ve been known to shed.
When I left the room, Bethany and two of my most favorite yoga friends — shout-out to Sam and Zovig — were in the lobby waiting for the next class
I lost my mind when I saw them. Like, fully dissolved into a puddle of ugly-cry tears and hugs. It was the best feeling and it was the happiest I remember feeling in a very long time. Those hugs were downright life-changing. Or at least temporarily mood-changing.
I came home and life quickly returned to “normal with Crohn’s.” But that’s OK. I’ll take the pain as long as I can enjoy the occasional happy tears.
Maybe February 10 wasn’t “the first day of the rest of my life,” and perhaps February 12 wasn’t “the day that everything changed.”
But February 18? I’m starting to feel kinda good about February 18.