I want to share a bit of cancer-related grief I’ve been feeling recently. It might not seem huge, but grief doesn’t revolve around the ominous losses alone.
I’ve been a swimmer since before I have conscious memory. My grandparents and parents would take me to the pool at Village Square every Sunday until I started swimming competitively with the Dinos around age 12. Swimming was an escape for me during a couple particularly traumatic events in my childhood—a house fire and the sudden loss of my father. It was the only place I didn’t talk much about my life, allowing me to simply exist. Being in the water felt stabilizing in those tumultuous times, and I insisted on attending every practice I could.
After I retired from competition, I always bought gym memberships with access to a pool. Covid and cancer have changed that. Obviously, pools were closed with so much else when Covid struck in 2020. But, with my cancer diagnosis in the summer of 2021, I have only been able to take a few measured risks even though pools have reopened. Namely, a dip in the ocean and a visit to the Radium Hot Springs, both with ready access to showers and small, off-season crowds. The thing is, I have low neutrophils (a white blood cell key to fighting infections and healing tissue), and I can’t justify putting myself at increased risk from pools and water.
Low neutrophils have probably been my most impactful side effect. Yes, I detest all the hair on my bathroom floor, but thinning hair hasn’t bothered me too much since I prefer shorter hairstyles. Neuropathy (numbness in hands and feet) is mild in my case. I dislike the fatigue and chemo-brain, but it generally lasts only a few days. But low neutrophils (aka neutropenia) have delayed my treatments numerous times. Neutropenia makes me cautious in crowds and poorly ventilated areas. I take extra precautions when doing chores. My husband and I still wear masks almost everywhere. But even these adjustments don’t feel as significant as losing my access to swimming. I’ve felt less choice in letting go of swimming.
In the spirit of change and adaptation, I have found kayaking and canoeing a welcome return to the water, albeit no replacement for swimming. I still miss being in the water, gliding smoothly with a concentration on my stroke alone, enjoying my solitude. I can’t wait for kayak rentals to reopen for the season—only a week away! (Maybe I’ll buy a foldeable kayak this year.) Plus, I’m diving headfirst into a supportive three-day canoe expidition for young adults with cancer at Poisson-Blanc Reservoir in Québec next week. Nonetheless, the extended absence from water since last summer has contributed to my grief around swimming these past few months.
Just a bit of mourning for the swimmer I am/was. Loss is loss in all its forms. I welcome change as I attend to the grief.
Kat Dornian 