breaths of liberation
breaths of liberation
charting the path towards diagnosis through advocacy & care
“your intercostals are supposed to move like this.”
my physical therapist, millie, pauses a brutal deep-tissue manipulation of my intercostals and begins to gesture. her hands cradle an invisible balloon, and we watch it gently swell upwards and outwards. my eyes focus on the growing spectacle, teetering on the brink of comically large before my eyes dart in the direction of her voice.
“but yours are so tight, they’re not budging!”
i hear the frustration ringing through, but can’t dole out consolation. instead, i’m entranced by the balloon’s waltz of deflation around the room, distracting myself from the discomfort of slim, bony fingers prodding at my tender musculature.
moments like this are no longer unusual for me during PT sessions. i embrace the discomfort like a dear companion. it hurts just enough to withstand for half an hour and pales in comparison to the pelvic pain i have experienced in recent years. part of the remedy for this involves deep-tissue massages, stretches, and homework. (pro tip: if you can utilise your health insurance by getting a referral to a physical therapist, you absolutely should. especially if you have any back pain.)
historically, i am bad with homework. (most people used to call me lazy, but they now attribute it to my ADHD.) but this type seems worth it because it prevents me from feeling like shit. and millie promised it would be easy. aside from the bed stretches she assigned me at our previous session (and that i am supposed to do daily,) she tacks on mindful diaphragmatic breathing.
i suppose there’s a first for everything: no one’s ever assigned me homework for the efforts of my autonomic nervous system.
during my annual physical, my new primary care physician sucked in all my symptoms and regurgitated a referral to a pelvic floor physical therapist. i chose millie, due to the ease of location. other than eavesdropping on vague overtures about a former co-worker’s sex life, i’ve never known anyone who has gone to one.
i’m not entirely sure what to expect.
an inquiry into my medical history feels like a journey through tangled vines, pulling out roots of past traumas and laying them bare. when i falter, there’s another mark. the body keeps score, a ledger of pain.
the physical examination twists into a tango of trouble when her fingers stab my diaphragm and ribs. pain blooms beneath her touch: a reminder of the interconnectedness of mind and body. her voice hitches as she inquires about my breathing habits. breath? what of it? with numerous years of vocal training, diaphragmatic breath is something i have already mastered. turns out i’m wrong: spending life hunched in front of a screen like a tiny troll fucks with your breathing. present me is paying for the sins of my youth.
millie informs me that proper breathing acts as a lifeline to relaxation for the pelvic floor. another brutal reminder that healing begins from within, from the very breath that sustains me.
as i linger after the stretching portion, millie asks me bluntly, “what are you holding in your body that you can’t let go of? that’s why your chest is so tight!”
what do i hold in my body? why does the tightness in my chest refuse to release? in that moment, the floodgates of memory burst open, pouring forth tsunamis of intergenerational trauma, ancestral burdens, and past wounds. amidst the urge to eternal sunshine myself into oblivion, seeds of trust take root. this relationship with my pelvic floor therapist transforms into a promise of moving forward in a positive direction, guided by empathy.
and, of course, as always
the breath.
today, my new gynecologist calls me by the correct name.
“christa?”
a masked petite powerhouse knocks gently on the entrance to the sterile examination room. i’m perpetually tardy to most appointments, but this time i’m super late. i already missed my ultrasound (planned for before the conversation with my physician.) not even 20 minutes ago, my uber dropped me off at the wrong location: eight long blocks away. i attempt to catch my breath from the panicked jog over before diving into my traumatic medical history and symptoms. millie’s final words from our last appointment echo in my head, “remember to text me and let me know how it goes with your new doctor.” not well so far, i respond back to an invisible spectre. however, i persist. i answer my physician’s questions with ease as i recount my medical history for what is hopefully, the last time with a gynecologist. i tell her about my migraines and how i can’t get out of bed for a couple days when they hit. and once that subsides, how waves of nausea and literal vomit take over me (not unlike a demon inhabiting my spirited flesh) and i can’t stomach real food for three days before my period begins. how all of these symptoms snowball into chaos and frustration, and how much i am seeking a baseline for myself that doesn’t involve physical parts of me being torn apart and chopping sewn back together.
when the doctor takes my blood pressure again, i remind myself to relax and take a deep inhalation. 128/82. that’s just about normal.
the breath saves me once again.
“i suspect you have endometriosis.”
my doctor’s words cut the silence. our entire appointment was an hour or so, including physical examination. again, my insides are prodded and poked at with increasing pressure but for some reason— i am ok with this as i manage and time the inspiration and expiration of my lungs.
“there’s no cure. it isn’t a definitive diagnosis. that can only be resolved with surgery. but at this point, i’m on the fence for that because the symptoms are clear.”
she goes on and we collaborate on a care plan. for years, waiting on bated breath, relief sinks into my bones. a deep sigh emanates from my lips and my physician chuckles at the gesture. her eyes intimate that she is too familiar with gravity of having one’s symptoms being heard and seen by someone after years of dismissal.
one more for the road: a rooted breath that sprouts from my toes and lingers in the spots of searing pain— only to escape through my lips audibly, releasing everything that made me tense.
while it’s not a cure-all, my breath has become soothing salve for my aches. it’s taught me how to connect with myself and resonate with the rhythms and cycles of my being. to have a care team that validated that feels liberating in many ways.
later that evening, i text millie as an update. when she responds, she signs off with: “breathe easy.”
i think, at least for this evening, i finally will.
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