The Leukemia I have, CLL 17p, primarily robs me of my energy and vigor when it chooses to remind me it is in my body. There is an insatiable fatigue that comes and goes, reminding me that there is cancer in my body. I take what some are calling a miracle drug IBUTRINIB. Once a day, every day, I take 3 pills. I have experienced a 7 month period of normal blood tests and fewer and fewer days of complete fatigue and debilitating exhaustion. Thank God for small miracles and for big ones like ibutrinib too. My wife Kate and I settled into a nice rhythm during the school year with our 3 toddler kids that includes me taking them to school at 8:30am most mornings, sometimes working out and then managing through the afternoon until dinner time, bath time and bed time snuggles. That is a full day for me anymore.
Ibutrinib is chemotherapy. it kills the unwelcome rogue cancer cells in my bone marrow and blood stream. And so far, the drug is winning the battle. There are patients with CLL 17p who started on the drug while it was in experimental clinical trial and the medicine is still keeping the disease at bay at the two year mark. That is good news for half of the people who are on this drug. The other half, well, we try not to focus on the alternative outcome much. I pray I am in the first 50%. Time will tell. So far so good!
The other day I was in a hot yoga class. Quit laughing! I know the image of this old, pudgy ex-quarterback in tights and a tank top isn’t exactly a pretty picture, but I have gotten more flexible from the classes, and I have been surprised. When I got diagnosed with leukemia it was suggested that I purchase an infrared sauna so I could regularly detox from the chemo drugs in my body. I have enjoyed those sessions of good sweat weekly and so my wife suggested I join her for a hot yoga class for the same reason (and I have to say it is nice to do something together with kate during the day away from the kiddos) and it helps sweat out the poisons. And I sweat profusely in those 75 minute yoga sessions imagining the poison and the cancer leaving my body, so I guess we are accomplishing the mission.
During each class, the teacher will differentiate the instruction, to accommodate remedial students like me as well as the advanced yogis like my wife. Every class I find myself chuckling under my breadth at least once during the session when the instructor suggests something like "for those of you who want to add a little extra stretch…" and then they suggest a variation of the pose that would be the equivalent of putting my body into a pretzel, and it causes me to laugh at how impossible such a pose would be for me. Obviously the instructor is not talking to or looking at me with these suggestions, because if she were, that is the last thought my pose would inspire her to share. I chuckle, and I can’t help but think some of the other students and the instructor share my giggle with me when they see me in the corner in a knot. All in good fun.
But the other day, I was struck by the simple phrasing that the teacher shared. She said "take your time, find your edge, the edge of your pose, no one else’s, just yours, and then take a breath there, and then go a little farther, if you can." I loved that. It didn’t allow me to go any deeper into my chair pose or set my triangle pose any wider, but it made me comfortable to find MY edge on this day, and to pause there, check out the moment, and then decide what to do. It just seemed like such a profound offering especially living with the expected and sometimes unexpected limitations of this blood cancer. Because MY edge varies so from day to day, sometimes hour to hour. It is from that edge where I am able to take a breath and pause. And from that pause, evaluate to go farther, or pull back. Either option being perfectly OK.
I thanked Angela for her teaching. It has helped me with the ups and downs of every day since, and so I thought I would share it with you; prayerful that you too can stop, find your edge, take a breath and maybe go a little farther today.
Amen and amen.
Scott