correspondence with my bod

I've begun a little correspondence with my body. We're pen pals, like. I'm always so pleased to hear back from it, though it turns out to be snarkier than I am, which came as a total surprise, given that it "has its own wisdom" and all that. Here is how I began the conversation:

Dearest, most precious body:

     How I have loved these first 56 years we’ve had together. Most of it has been so easy, so miraculous and fun. I know you don’t have as much energy as you once did, and I am going to make you some promises about that in this letter. But by and large, you have taken such wonderful care of me.

     We had a great childhood together, didn't we? I cannot remember when you ever let me down. You were so perfect and so strong! Thanks for pulling me into all those trees, so easily. Thanks for all the freedom you gave me, and for the ego boost when I could armwrestle people like Jim Neilan. That was fabulous. 

     We’ve been through a lot together, especially in the past few years, and I wonder if it feels to you as though I have taken worse care of you than you have of me. I guess I have been exercising tough love with some of the decisions I’ve made recently, and I appreciate that you have met me with resilience and aplomb through these challenges. Though it is not over, I do hope we can move through this era soon and get on to the business of aging slowly and gracefully.

     How do you really feel about general anesthesia? You and I have been chemically separated for long moments several times now. I am not afraid of it, as I trust that you will come back to me and I will come back to you. I hope it is not difficult for you in ways that are real and undetectable to me. The anesthesia is meant to shield you, but I know you are more complex and wise than I can ever understand, and this being trumped by anesthesia must cost you in ways that also are beyond understanding – unless your wisdom even exceeds my imagination and you surrender willingly, easily, as the medicine courses through your veins. I want you to know that if it had felt possible to forego anesthesia and still protect you, I would have done that.

     You are in fact unbelievably cooperative. You respond to what I eat, taking it in and using it as well as you can, sending nutrients wherever they are needed. You heal quickly, still. I so appreciate that about you. You amaze me. I would like to learn how to let go and heal as quickly as you do.

     I have to tell you that you took me by surprise with the genetic mutation, even more so than the cancer. I know I’ve eaten things I shouldn’t have, and I know I should have gotten more exercise, especially when the kids were younger. I don’t know if that made it impossible for you to avoid the cancer, given the mutation with its crazy odds. I’m sorry if things like too much sugar or dairy or other white things made it hard to fight those odds.

     It cracked me up that the first thing that tasted good to you after chemotherapy was sushi. Touché! And so smart of you. I need the nutrients in fish. You are learning to like things that will help us stay together for a long time, and I am deeply grateful that some things that we need have begun to taste okay to you. Let’s work together on this.

     I hope operating on our thumbs is the right thing to do. I apologize for the related hassle. I know that arthritis came from our genes, too, and that neither of us could help it. I just got really tired of the pain. Soon we will be working on getting some strength back. Please do your healing thing and get stronger in these challenged places. I’ll try to stay focused on it, too.

     Heads up: our right thumb is in for the same brouhaha in a few months. I know it will not be expecting this, but I thought I'd let you know anyway.

     I know you miss our breasts. I do, too. Nothing fits you quite right, and I am sorry about that. I don't want to put you through more operations to give us phony breasts; it seems like that would be asking a lot of you. I guess maybe the breastless thing is my issue anyway, not yours. Please let me know if there are things you want me to do given the loss of nerves, of tissue, of bulk. Do you want me to be rubbing oil on that space? I am never sure. 

    I have to palpate around your pits and chest all the time, and I know that irritates you. But I need to keep checking up on you because of that genetic snafu. I want to trust you, but I can't. I just can't. I'm so sorry.

     Some other apologies here: so sorry about cutting your shin that first time I tried to shave. That was totally my fault.  Thanks for healing up, and for hurting enough to make me really cautious when I shave in that spot ever since.

     Sorry about all the chips, cheese, and other things that probably demanded more resources than I should have asked from you. I meant them as a treat for you, but it probably only felt that way for your tongue. Maybe I should write to your tongue, too. Anyway, thanks for the great metabolism despite my indulgences.

     You don’t want to try getting drunk, do you? I don’t. Let’s avoid that forever. I appreciate your being a lightweight.

     Sometimes it feels like you clutch, like it takes you longer than I would like it to for you to relax and quiet down. Examples, if you need them, are our lips and our brow, which keep going back to a smidgen of tightness when it is time to meditate or to sleep. Could you please let go of that, too?

     I am trying very, very hard to take good care of you. You’ve given up a lot, and you’ve been a brick about it.

     I know you saw that big package that came today. It's for you! It's a little trampoline, and you can bounce on it. You love to bounce, right? Enjoy it! And please get stronger.

     I would like to live with you for a long time, and I want you to be excited about that. I am thinking mid-90s would be great, unless our brain gives out. I hear you about the genetic challenge, and I hope you hear me about how willing I am to fight for you.

     I promise to make our health a top priority. This means I will attend to feeding you well, to continue to exercise regularly, to work in some strengthening exercise, to laugh often, to meditate, to work on the tasks that are mine to learn. I promise to be deliberate about giving you beautiful and health-promoting things to look at, to listen to, and to taste, feel, and smell.

     When we do part, know that I have loved you and appreciated you more than I know how to express. I will work hard at making my gratitude apparent to you through how I live and how I take care of you. Let’s laugh often. It’s so good for both of us.

Love and a scratch, wherever you need it,*

p

*Really sorry to put a caveat on this, but you've been kind of tight around the arms ever since the surgery on the chest. If you could loosen up a bit, I could do a much better job of scratching you. Maybe this is the original meaning of "I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine." What do you say?

P.S. Let me hear back from you! No rush; I know you can't write easily until the cast comes off. I'm not going anywhere. 

P.P.S. I did notice that you are still willing to build neurons for me, and that writing with our right hand has actually become legible sometimes. You absolutely ROCK for still allowing me to learn.
P.P.P.S. How could I forget? The beautiful babies you nourished, first inside you and then with milk? No matter what happens to us or when, you are perfect because of them.