March 10, 10:10est

1991

I cried at the gym again. Not only do I cry, but I also judge myself for not being able to focus on the simplest moves. I do not recognize that person in the mirror. She is only vaguely familiar. I try to make my way out of my head and back to my body moving…all while trying to perform the movements correctly and not trip or accidentally let go of a kettlebell to the mirror ot another person. And then in frustration I resort back to ‘just’ standing and focussing on my breath. Lame, but no less important, but also…lame. Crazy judgement from someone who teaches breathwork!

Working out is not only about moving our body but creating a connection between our body and our mind. And to take it slightly further, to consciously move through space while challenging muscles within your body as well as training your left and right brain. That’s key, and that’s also where the pinch is. Left/right cross-patterning is so important but also far more difficult for me some days. And, although I’m keenly aware of it I am seemingly unable to easily bring myself out of it. My gaze is at the floor and I go through the motions. Not exactly giving it my all, but giving it all I can currently muster. Points for showing up!

Part of my ‘problem’ is that Fraser and I used to go to the gym together. As much as he couldn’t teach me golf, I couldn’t teach him Pilates or other movement programs that, I would remind him, ‘other people pay me for!’. But that’s ok, there are clearly some things couples should not do together, and I know we’re not alone in that! But, we finally found a gym that suited both our needs and we really enjoyed going, along with friends. 7 am every Tuesday and Thursday were our morning dates when he was home.

I miss seeing him work his way to a sweaty mess (I don’t miss him blowing his sweat at me as it rolled off his top lip…Ew! Whyyy?!) and I miss seeing him workout off the mats to my right. Whenever we try to do a particular move that requires one to jump sideways and turn around while lifting the kettlebell upwards with the opposite hand (I’m making it sound way harder for effect. Lol), I can see him roll his eyes and I smile knowing how much he hated it. But I admired that he was also at least willing to try, no matter how silly he felt…and I may have teased him once or twice. lol Laughter is good too…and so is crying apparently. :/

Another key component to a good movement plan is breathwork. At the end of our workouts, to help bring ourselves back to a regulated breath pattern, we take 5 minutes and, breathing through our nose, we breathe in for 5 counts; hold for 5; breathe out for 5 and hold for 5. The bottom breath hold is key to change.

We play this beautiful piece of music and, every time, it brings me back to the hospital. As Fraser lay there, allowing the machine to do the breathing for him, I would place my phone on his chest and quietly play this song. It was familiar for him and I would talk him through it as I breathed beside his ear so he could feel and hear my breath. I placed one hand on his chest and one hand on his head hoping he could feel them work together sending love as I tried to coax his body and mind to work together so his breath could return on its own.

🎶Nuvole Bianche: Ludavica Einaudi🎶

https://open.spotify.com/track/3weNRklVDqb4Rr5MhKBR3D?si=6wpKVyjSQDmSGtVKqS06SQ

I did this a few times a day over the weeks…it was equally beneficial for me to focus on my breath to help regulate my nervous system as it was (still is) also slightly dis-regulated…to say the least. The problem, is that now that song has become a memory of our time in the hospital, (Pavlov’s dog anyone?), me beside him at his most vulnerable state, and my complete inability to affect the change I so wanted to see. I sometimes think I could have done more. Wished I could have done more. Is that true? …Aaaand back in my head I go. Ergh…he was right again. I might have mentioned that he maaay have told me once that I’m in my head too much. Just once.

So, as I lay on the mat and try to recover my breath, I allow the tears to fall and try to remember I am held. I am held by Spirt, by  God’s hands and I am held by the loving support around me. I am held in the perfection of the moment as it is as it should be. (I believe this more than I believe it’s all stupid and pointless…and sometimes that is only 51% and that’s the best I can do at that moment.) As the music crescendos and falls I continue to focus on my breath and am overwhelmed at the love I felt, especially at those moments in hospital and wishing it was enough to bring him back. Remembering the hope and the peace of his journey I eventually came to accept, or at the very least, acknowledge.

So the tears are sadness of all I couldn’t do for him (truly for my own benefit so I don’t have to go through this grief!), but also of complete gratitude for all the love and support surrounding us and also for the many moments we had together. As I lay there counting my breath, it is not lost on me that one final exhale and breath was no longer a part of him. Perhaps he is now part of our every breath.

And as comforting as I want that to be, it’s not always. At a quantum level I believe we are consciousness experiencing physicality, and I miss the physical. His breath; his voice, his hugs; his touch…have all been replaced with this clutch in my chest (I suppose that’s physicality too, but, ugh). I want to remember what it feels like to be held by him again. I want to remember what it feels like to hear him breathing beside me…maybe even the odd snore in bed….I mean, it’s a clear sign someone is breathing, right?! Be grateful! Ok…easy to say since he rarely snored.

So, I am left to experience only my own breath and the life that encompasses. The feelings of grief and sadness and love and gratitude and…well, that seems to be enough for the moment. Breath is life and life is breath.  Thank you life. Thank you breath.🙏

Have a beautiful day, and remember to breathe. 💕

xo, Brooke