Muscles

Every other day, I do my pushups, the regimen I started after Sandy started pressuring me in late 2009 or early 2010. I started doing pushups on the fifth stair, gradually increasing the number I did in each set and the difficulty of the pushup itself. Shortly before she died, I'd advanced to full pushups on the floor.

The regular pushups benefit me in numerous ways, of course. But mainly I do them out of a commitment to Sandy. She wanted me to be strong. She wanted me to explore the possibilities of my post-valve-replacement body. And she wanted someone to share progress with as she did hers. In the six months or so preceding her death, I continued every other day, but she often missed hers. And then, when she did them, the chemo fatigue (and, as we later realized, the cancer's spread) pushed her backwards, so that she couldn't do as many as before, and she needed to do them on the stairs again instead of the floor. I was proud of her for taking care of herself, both in attempting them and in being gentler with herself than she might have been.

When Sandy was about to stop seeing her personal
trainer, she asked for photos of herself on all of the
equipment, so she'd remember what she did and how
to do it correctly. All of those photos, taken in
December 2004,  are fabulous. This one caught my eye
because she named it "Hey, actual muscles!" She was
two months older than I am now when this was taken,
and her muscles were much more sculpted than mine are.

For so many years, I counted on Sandy to be my packhorse, hauling bags of compost effortlessly across the yard, lifting our heavy bikes onto the bus rack, or even pulling the two-person kayak along as she rowed while I surreptitiously rested my arms behind her. (That last one may not have been about my lack of muscle strength as much as it was about my desire to just sit and enjoy the water.)

A fresh new valve changed the dynamics of bloodflow in my body, and I was told I had no limits. But I was scared to push my upper body. In the past, I'd felt something in my chest pinch when I even attempted plank pose in yoga. I'd had trouble lifting weights as far back as high school, as my lip curled involuntarily and I felt my chest squeeze. The accumulated experiences of pain and discomfort from upper-body exertion had left quite a mark on my psyche.

I resisted Sandy's efforts to get me to start pushing myself. But, as if often the case, my initial refusal melted when I had a little time to consider it and actually become curious. So, when she was out of the house, I tried a few on the fifth stair. They were challenging, but I didn't faint or feel discomfort or even feel my lip curl.

We didn't know she was preparing me to be my own packhorse, but my new arm strength came in handy as hers wavered. And now, well, I'm the one who has to haul compost bags or lift the bike or row the kayak, because her arms aren't here for me anymore.

I used to quiz her on the location of our financial records, coach her on the bills I paid, show her where our important documents were kept. Taking care of such things was in my realm of household tasks, but I wanted to make sure she'd be able to manage her affairs if I died. I don't think either of us had any idea that she was coaching me for survival, too.

I've added other exercises between the sets of pushups. I do sit-ups and leg lifts, and I've just started using weights to strengthen my triceps. I'm developing some attractive muscles, and sometimes I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing for my own admiration. Sandy would be impressed if she were alive, and she probably is impressed. Proud of me. Proud of herself for providing the encouragement and inspiration.

As I get stronger, I also have no illusions that this is a longterm development. It's possible I'll be able to continue exercising at this rate for years to come. But injury or illness could strike at any time. At my age, Sandy was amazingly fit, very strong, and very active. We thought she'd arrived. But she was only able to enjoy that level of fitness for a couple of years before cancer stole it from her.

I expect to become disabled or incapacitated in some way at some point in the future, and I think of the strength I'm building now as a reservoir I'll be able to draw from then. My leg strength and overall fitness certainly helped me recover well from open-heart surgery. So every bit of muscle I bank now is a bit I can draw on later if I need to. But mainly I just want to make Sandy proud.