The Legitimacy of Strength
Last night, for the first time in over a year, I was able to lift my now almost 5 year old daughter and carry her up a flight of stairs to bed. When spontaneously I scooped her up, she squealed with delight... quickly adding ‘But Mummy, watch yourself!’ - mimicking my husband’s concern in situations where I might overexert myself.
For the majority of last year, I had felt unwell in various, seemingly unrelated, ways. It was vague and random enough, that doctor visits proved useless. So eventually, I simply ignored it. Then it all came to head over Christmas. I do not recollect much of the action-packed ambulance ride, or of the next few days for that matter, other than the acute embarrassment I had felt at first. I was convinced I was having a panic attack and wasting everyone’s time. The heart diagnosis came as a surprise. As did being told in the end, that the long term treatment options were ‘wait and see.’
One suggestion made to me by a youngish doctor, was to try strength training.
’Speak to your gym and see if they can work with your Situation. We always recommend it for heart health. Few people actually do it. But if you ask me, it’s better than going on beta blockers.’
On the 15th of January (yes, I remember the date) I started at the gym.
In my utter innocence of such things, I did not know what ‘strength training’ was exactly. I assumed it was something not dissimilar to pilates… only surely gentler, if they recommended it to someone in my condition? At the time, the 10 minute walk to the gym felt like a feat.
The discovery that strength training meant lifting weights was an epiphonic moment. And one of those times, when I realise how utterly clueless I am about Basic Stuff, despite all my education!
I began with a sort of physiotherapy-esque version of it. I required a lot of supervision. But in less than two weeks, I became a more or less normal-presenting participant of the strength training sessions.
The gym operated exclusively with free weights. There were barbells and there were dumbbells. And the point was to increase their weight incrementally, as we rotated through a weekly menu of squats, lunges, deadlifts, overhead presses, bicep curls, and the like. Really classic, no-frills traditional stuff that I associated with bodybuilding in the ‘70s.
It was a lot less complex than what I thought was meant by ‘strength training.’ It even somehow felt passive - more similar to, say, getting a haircut, than to doing the active things I’d been accustomed to, such as cycling, hiking, and swimming. With the weights, it was as if I was submitting myself to a process, rather than instigating it.
You lift weights. You do it in a variety of ways so as to use different muscles. And each time, you try to lift a bit more than the last time.
The simplicity of it was almost difficult to accept. As was its effectiveness. My heart symptoms improved, and continue to improve.
But as much as I want to focus on the recovery aspect, and on the gained strength… there is a proverbial elephant in the room: the ongoing physical transformation.
I have not lost any weight. Yet despite this, I have gone down several clothing sizes - due to having replaced several kilos of body fat with the same in muscle mass, which is denser and therefore takes less space. The visual effect of the change is a sort of sculptural chiseling, particularly to the midsection and upper arms where I tend to store fat.
The change in me is noticeable, to the point that people comment on it… whereupon, I feel compelled to Explain why it was that I ‘had’ to do the strength training. As if the Heart Thing, dare I say, legitimises, what could otherwise be perceived as a midlife crisis vanity project.
And perhaps this is why we felt the need for new terminology, to describe what has been going on at gyms for decades.
Whereas terms like body building suggest a self-indulgent, frivolous focus on the physical, strength training carries practical, character-building, even virtuous connotations.
Because the story with carrying my daughter to bed is what it’s all about, after all. That is the story to tell. And of course, the heart thing.
But what of catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and gasping at the sharpened outlines? Perhaps with continued training, I will find the strength to eschew such nonsense.
REFERENCES & CREDITS
gym: Paul McGowan, Moville Donegal
