It was with great delight and joy that we welcomed our long-lost daughter, Kate, home from Vietnam a few weeks ago.
I was more than thrilled to have her return home from a two-year Covid exile in a foreign country.
But also, because Kate had used her lockdown to become a fitness buff, I was thrilled to now have access to my very own personal trainer.
I hired her on the spot.
I gave Kate a brief outline of my limitations.
The post-radiation lymphedema in my right leg requires that I avoid all jarring-type activities like jumping, hopping or lunging.
Or jogging.
Or fast walking.
The stoma I have for my post-cancer colostomy bag leaves me at great risk of a hernia, so no lifting of anything really heavy.
Or somewhat heavy.
Or even a little bit heavy.
Avoiding excess strain on my stomach muscles also includes no sit-ups or crunches.
Planks are right out.
Kate reviewed my list of limitations and retreated to create a custom exercise routine for her soon-to-be fit and trim mother.
I waited.
I saw her watch a few videos and take notes.
One day she casually asked, “Did you know that the life expectancy of a person with lymphedema is two years?”
Suddenly my fat ankle seemed ominous.
I went to Google and realized she’d been reading about lymphangiosarcoma, which is a different disease.
I had dodged a bullet.
But still no mom-slimming workout routine appeared.
I waited.
Days passed until finally my personal trainer revealed her findings.
“Mom,” Kate said, “it looks like all you can really do is lay on the floor and take deep breaths.”
All I could do was laugh, and be thankful that Kate is home to help me get up off the floor.