I Miss My Muscle Mass

Requiem for a glute.

I’ve been spoiled. I take after my father physically, tallish and lean-leaning. Sturdy. Tom Littlefair with breasts and hips, a decent body in dependable working order, a Ford as opposed to a Lambhorgini. My father was the epitome of joyful motion, perpetual; as long as moving, happy. I got the gym gene from him, lifelong gym rats the two of us. His body gave him nothing but faithful service until, at age 76, his heart exploded unannounced at the dinner table one night before dessert was even served. That was the end of it. No more raspberry sherbet for him. But even that was a bit of good bodily luck as these things go. Quick. Efficient. I think he’d have approved.

I miss my muscle mass. I had it until two months ago and now, one major surgery later, it’s gone. Collateral damage. Sideswiped. Lying in bed six weeks after the surgery I tried to massage the spot where my glute used to be only to discover femur at the bottom of a flaccid hollow that ran from my butt to the back of my knee, gone the taut resistance. The bulk and density I’d come to associate with that part of my body were no more. After six weeks of inactivity it stood to reason that my other glute was also MII: missing in inaction. I don’t know. I was too demoralized to check. 

For decades I’ve included physicality in my life. Nothing fancy. I walk, I ride, go to the gym. It all goes to basic maintenance, a regular topping up of the oil. More recently it’s been goal oriented: to remain fit enough to get myself in and out of chairs and cars and up and down stairs and on and off toilets for the rest of my life. No Ironman longings here, no pretensions. I just want to be able to maintain a modicum of dignity in grocery store parking lots and public bathrooms and not require the assistance of 911. But now it appears my butt has met an early demise. 

Bits of wishfulness regarding my physical being persist. Last week I tried to convince my orthopedic surgeon that his work on one of my congenitally deformed hips had reversed the arthritis in my other hip, the one he hadn’t operated on, making it a candidate for repair as well. Judging from the speed of his response I’m guessing he didn’t give my suggestion much thought. That’s not the way arthritis works, he said, but I’m glad you’ve experienced some relief. That is apparently what a win looks like at this point in life, a reprieve not a reversal.

Given the general direction in which things are headed—apart—I’m glad to say I’m getting better at it. Time was when a cold used to send me to the depths of despair, lead me to think I’d be bad at dying, but now I see I’ll be fine. I’m already doing it in small ways all the time, colds but a helpful reminder. It’s good when the falling apart is larger, more obvious: a cancer diagnosis, surgery, something more than a dirty Kleenex. But all forms of dissolution help, all forms gratefully accepted. Practice makes perfect. I’m getting good at this. Not to brag but I’m practically dead already.

Ahead of the surgery I called the Y to put my gym membership on hold. Two months, I said. That gave me a couple more weeks than I figured I’d need. Insurance. A nod to age. I called back toward the end of the two months to extend it to eight months. Eight! I’d gone from asking the oncologist how soon I could return to my fitness routine to drop kicking it to the far end of later without so much as a grunt. I was even a little aggrieved when they told me this would effectively exhaust my hold privileges for the year. What if I’m still not ready to go back? It seems I’ve conquered whatever designs I once had on immortality.

I’ve now spent a couple weeks gently conditioning my wayward parts. I walk my glutes up the local citadel backwards. It’s a hack. I’ve discovered it’s easier to walk uphill backwards than frontwards.  I also walk frontwards a lot. And now I’m googling “abdominal exercises post-abdominal surgery.” Who knew a pelvic tilt, that most non of exercises, could be so much work? But I’m ready. I’m back. I know where all this is headed, this heap of a body, but if I have my say it will still be in mostly working order when it gets there.

Photo by Georgie Cobbs on Unsplash