Control and its many cousins

I think one of the reasons I’m freaking out so much over being prepared for Tour de Pink is BECAUSE I have control over the situation.

Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE control. Some would call me a control freak. But in a healthy way. I have learned, and continue to learn through life events, what I can and cannot control. I learn, and continue to learn, what I need to let go of. I am learning the beauty of “it will be what it will be.” I can’t say I’ve mastered that quite yet, but I’ve come a long way.

Part of the reason I have decided to take on the challenge of riding 200+ miles from Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. this fall is to TAKE BACK CONTROL. Of my body, of my strength, of my destiny, of my experiences, of my life. I am CHOOSING this challenge. I am choosing to prepare myself in mind and body for this ride, and I am making the choice to do it. I decided when. I decided why. I decided how. And again, because it’s so important, I decided why.

I’ve learned when it comes to cancer, there’s only so much I can do. I can get my checkups and screenings and I can try to live a healthy lifestyle. But beyond that: nothing. I can’t control my genetics or my cell environment. I can’t decide what mutations do in my blood and my tissue. I didn’t cause the Leukemia or breast cancer. And I won’t be able to prevent it if either of them come back.

So I taught myself a way to live with it: I will do the best I can to maintain a healthy lifestyle. And I’ll also NOT let it control my life. I won’t obsess over it. IT WILL BE WHAT IT WILL BE. I may get cancer again. I may not get cancer again. I’ll be proactive with my health. I’ll report illness or changes in my body to the doctor right away, and keep up with my CBCs every four months and my colonoscopies every few years. I’ll see my dentist, dermatologist, gynecologist, general care doctor and oncologist regularly. But beyond that: nothing. I do what I can. I do what I CAN control and then I let the rest be.

But with the bike ride, all of the pressure lies on my back. The pressure to be ready. The pressure to do it. The pressure to finish it. For myself and for my millions of reasons. Nobody else will judge me if I don’t finish. Nobody else will judge me if I can’t finish a day of the tour. But I’ll know. This is a challenge I’ve taken on that I CAN control. I control my body and I control my bike and I control the training and I control my physical fitness. I said in a previous post that now, after the breast cancer, it’s MY turn to steer. It’s my turn to decide what my body does and where my life goes. MY choice. The breast cancer doesn’t have a say and it didn’t leave more than scars. I’ve taken it all back.

And the pressure is on.

I came to the realization today, that as much as I told myself I will prepare for the ride and do the best I can, and that IT WILL BE WHAT IT WILL BE, I never actually believed any of those words. Today I do. Today I believe them. While Tour de Pink IS in my control, from the seven months of training to the three days of riding, there comes a point, even in cycling, where you LET GO AND LET G-D.

That means that from the time I registered from the time I begin the tour on Sept. 27, I will do my absolute best in my training. And beyond that: nothing. What else is there beyond your absolute best? If I’m trying my hardest all the time then what else is there?! I keep thinking there’s more. But there isn’t. I’ll do the best I can, and when the ride gets here, IT WILL BE WHAT IT WILL BE.

Whatever is meant to be will be, even with Tour de Pink, even in a situation where I have control, even in a situation I HAVE CHOSEN.

Just because I’ve chosen it doesn’t mean I can control it.

Not to be pessimistic or dramatic, but this might help put what I’m trying to say in perspective: take a marathon runner who trains every day of her life. It’s the day of the race and one mile in she sprains her ankle and can’t continue.

She doesn’t finish the race.

Did she choose to train for a marathon? Yes. Did she choose to sign up for a marathon? Yes. Was she prepared for the marathon? Yes.

You.can’t.control.every.outcome.

With the breast cancer I’ve been learning and I’ve had practice on letting certain things go. From my stage to the tumor size to the margins to the skin ripping around the implant … none of that was up to me. It just happened. Breast cancer just happened. So I learned. I learned to accept reality. THAT THIS SUCKS. That I got diagnosed with breast cancer while I was planning my wedding. I tried to find the best in every situation and maybe even sugar-coated some of it. But eventually I accepted reality: I was dealing with breast cancer while planning my wedding. I didn’t choose it and I couldn’t control it. I taught myself those things.

The same applies to Tour de Pink. Just on a whole different scale. While I’m choosing this challenge and taking on this mission for myself, I can’t control what happens on those race days. But I do know that as long as I try my hardest every day, that’s all I can do. I keep say it doesn’t matter if I’m screaming and crying and throwing up and my legs are bleeding, I just want to finish the race. But the reality is I don’t know what will happen. I do know I will do my best. And the outcome will be what it will be. I’ll either finish or I won’t. But there’s no use trying to control that now.

The best I can do each day IS MY BEST. And the best I can do in September during Tour de Pink IS MY BEST. And whatever happens happens. The point is I’m trying. I’m challenging myself. I’ve decided to do this and I am and I will.

I think I got so caught up in this being a thing I can finally control that I didn’t realize it’s not really a thing I can really control. As with ANYTHING in life, control only goes so far. Sometimes you have a lot of it, sometimes you have a little bit of it, and sometimes you have none of it. But you never, ever, ever have all of it.

What a relief that is. What a weight to be lifted. To allow myself to let Tour de Pink be what Tour de Pink will be. Instead of bricks sitting on my chest as the race draws nearer and nearer, I’m choosing feathers. That doesn’t mean this won’t be one of the biggest challenges of my life, both physically and mentally. That doesn’t mean it won’t be a life changing experience. That doesn’t mean this isn’t like one of the biggest things I’ve ever done. And it doesn’t mean it won’t be hard. It just means I’ve made a choice to let some of the pressure go. Because I know now, that doing my best IS the best I can do.

I originally started this post because I have my annual breast MRI coming up next month. It has been one year since I’ve had a breast MRI. I got my last one right before we left for our honeymoon and I remember thinking that was NOT a good idea because if they found “something” it would kind of sort of ruin our trip to Europe. But thank G-d it came back clear. And now it’s time for my next one, of course, right before another big thing: my race.

I’m trying to keep my cool but there’s always that anxiety. With breast MRIs there’s more, and a different type, of anxiety, than when I see my other doctors. I see my oncologist every few months and she does a blood check and physical exam. Of course I get anxious EVERY time I go to the doctor, but at least with this I feel somewhat in control (there’s that word again) of my health, meaning I can tell if I’m not feeling well or if something isn’t right. Same thing when I see my dermatologist. I watch my moles closely and I’ll know if something changes. Things like a breast MRI are scarier for a few reasons:

1.       I’ve had breast cancer before

2.       I don’t feel my breasts or armpits. I know I’m supposed to, but I’m too scared to, so I don’t know what’s going on there. I made a personal decision not to give myself self-exams post mastectomies because it gave me too much anxiety. (I always think I feel a lump even if nothing is there. This, in turn, causes me to stop eating and sleeping and functioning, which is not productive to life.) I told this to my oncologist and she said it was OK – that I didn’t have to do self-exams, and she would do them for me. So my doctor knows and thinks it’s OK.

Those are the two reasons: having had breast cancer once, and not having any knowledge about what’s going on in my breasts. Though the latter is my choice and preference, it puts me in the dark a little. But I decided the cons far outweighed the pros. Seeing an oncologist every four months gives me a little leeway and takes some of the pressure off. Because I see her so often I don’t need to be feeling around my chest giving myself heart palpitations and panic attacks.

So, despite my best efforts, I’m already thinking about my MRI before bed at night, which is when I entertain all of my worries. I give it a few minutes, tell myself it will probably be OK, and then I tell myself it is what it is and if I have breast cancer again then we’ll deal with it, and then I tell myself if I have breast cancer again it’s not my fault and I didn’t make it happen. And that tides me over until the next time I think about it.

I know it’s normal to be worried for these screenings. I know what I feel is normal. I talk about it, I write about it, I address it. And there’s really nothing I can do except lay on that table and hope for the best. I can’t control what happens in my body and my cells. I can’t control the outcome of next month’s MRI.

And I can get on my bike and pedal up hills and learn the language and prepare myself, but at the end of the day I can’t control what ultimately happens at Tour de Pink. I can only get on my bike and hope for the best.

And it will probably be OK. Just like my MRI.

I put a lot of my fears and anxieties into riding and running. Because when I lay on the exam bed at the doctor’s office or on the table during an MRI I can’t really do much. I try to keep breathing and wait for that moment when the doctor says everything looks OK and I can sit back up again. It’s like my life is on hold until I get the “all clear.” Like I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if everything is OK, if I’m healthy.

In the meantime there’s nothing I can do. I just have to wait.

On my bike, or when I run, I am MOVING. I am making a conscious decision to move my body. Pushing myself on the bike is for holding my breath at the doctor’s office.

Moving my legs, sneakers pounding the pavement, is every single second I’ve waited, world on pause, for a flinch, a twitch of the doctor’s eye or mouth. Any sign of concern. Any furrowed brow. And when I’m done, free to go and healthy, the world moves again. I move again.

And I’m terrified one time it won’t. One time I won’t.

So it’s almost like I’m running, or cycling, in the meantime.