By Callie R. Feyen
@calliefeyen

“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield”

Excerpt of “Ulysses” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

My favorite commercial goes like this: a middle-aged woman who was once a ballerina is watching her former self dance on stage. The woman who’s watching still holds herself with strength and grace but she also has wrinkles. Her bun is not as full, and it is gray. The camera goes back and forth between the memory of who she was, to the reality of who she is and I watch assuming—empathetically—that what I see in her eyes is a yearning to do what she used to do; to be who she used to be. 

I am wrong. It is not yearning I see. It is anticipation. The camera pulls away to show that in fact she is not a former ballerina; she is on stage, too, waiting to begin. The two dance together—the same steps, the same routine—she is not the girl she once was, but she is not a memory, either. She is strong. She is beautiful. She is here.

This is how it will be for me, I determined after watching the commercial (that I think is for eye cream). Not literally, but maybe.

January

I signed up for a gym membership and also two half-marathons and also downloaded My Fitness Pal but couldn’t stick with the app because writing down everything I eat is a total buzz kill, and writing down the exercises I’ve done after doing them is overwhelming. I don’t want to keep track of the moves and the reps on the TRX. I want to remember the woman who stands next to me, and, before we begin, says, “This is gonna suck,” and we both start to laugh and we are still laughing while we push and pull ourselves on bands that hold us and it feels like we are flying and like maybe we are superheroes.

Running isn’t going well. I know longer experience the glorious hit of the runner’s high. No matter how much I run, I never feel loose or free or happy. I feel clunky and large. I am clunky and large. I weigh more than I ever have. 

One night, I am scrolling Instagram and a woman my age shares a picture of herself in a bikini. I know she looks just like I look if I were to take a picture, if I had the courage to wear a bikini. I don’t, though. Right now I have a cover-up in my Amazon cart that is long sleeved with a hood. This is what I hope to wear every day at the pool this summer.

“I honor my body for all it’s carried, for all it’s held,” the woman says. “No more bashing my body,” she says, because it’s given her children, it’s written books, cooked meals, held hands, belly-laughed, cried.

“Yeah,” I think, looking at my cellulite and squeezing my own fat, “I wish I didn’t have to carry so much. I wish I didn’t hold on to so much.”

One night, after going to the gym, I decide to go to Target to buy diet pills. There are about three kinds to choose from, plus one brand that’s locked behind a glass. A couple is in the aisle with me—all three of us facing the same thing, but none of us reaching toward what we want. Instead, we side-eye each other. Neither of them needs diet pills, and I wonder what they think about me. I’m pretty sure I know. I grab a value size that says “triple berry flavor” and go home.

The bottle sits in my bathroom for days. “What if I get addicted to them? What if they don’t work? What if they make me crazy?” This is what I ask Jesse every morning while we get ready for work.

“I don’t understand why you got them in the first place,” he says.

“I’ll start with half a dose,” I say, twisting open the lid and shaking out one gummy. It looks like a raspberry. 

No matter what I do, I am starving by 11 a.m. I have tried everything—eggs, granola, Greek yogurt, flax, prayer. Nothing works. Except these gummies. Eleven comes and goes, and I don’t even notice. I am Maria on the mountaintop belting out how alive with music the hills are. This is how happy I am.

At 12:30 p.m. I feel a tad hungry, so I eat my arugula salad and my spicy Trader Joe’s ramen (the ramen is not a dietary decision, I love Trader Joe’s spicy ramen). I am so proud of myself for taking control of my situation. Soon, I’m sure my stomach won't be sitting on my lap when I sit down.

At precisely 1 p.m. the situation changes—drastically. Do you know the pie-eating contest scene in “Stand By Me”? Or the scene in “Bridesmaids”? (I don’t think I have to say which scene.) That’s my life from 1 p.m. until about 5:30. My poor stomach. It can rest wherever it wants to rest—on my thighs, spilling over my jeans, pooching out of my workout tanks. “It’s OK, it’s OK,” I think to say. “We’re fine. We’re OK.”

If I were to tell Jesse about the ballerina I saw in the commercial, he’d say, “That’s exactly what the company wants you to think, Callie. They want you to buy the eye-cream.” We’ve had similar conversations about Martha Stewart. I believe I can be like her. I just need more time, and also, I need to learn a few things like how to knit and grill—how to start a grill—and probably how to fold a fitted sheet into a perfect square. 

“She does not do it all,” Jesse says.

“Yes, she does,” I return.

“She has people to do all that,” Jesse tries again.

“People she taught,” I say.

“She is an image.”

She is an image I believe I can obtain, just like the ballerina. I am not talking about perfectionism. I want to believe I am still capable of changing, of being strong and graceful. I want to believe I can still learn and grow. I want to believe I will once again feel comfortable with myself. I want to believe I still have something to offer. 

The other healthy thing I did this year was get a FitBit. Well, it was a FitBit knock off. I wanted something to only count my steps. That’s it. I didn’t want any texts, emails, or alerts from the socials. I just wanted to know how many steps I’d taken each day. The one that I bought (I thought) assured me this is all it offered, plus it was only like ten dollars, and since that was a total bargain, I bought a bracelet for it instead of a band. It had several (some might say too many) fake diamonds on it, and it was also about two inches thick. When Jesse sees it, he says, “Are you gonna exercise in this?” 

“It says I can!” I say. This is a lie. I don’t remember reading anything that claimed I could —or should—wear my fake leather, fake diamond watch bracelet to workout in.

Jesse can’t stop laughing. “You know what this looks like?” he asks. “You know that ‘Friends’ episode where Joey buys Chandler the bracelet?”

“Stop,” I say, trying to figure out how to get the stupid thing on my new fake FitBit.

“Is this friendship? I think so!” Jesse says, and I want to kick him. 

“Be quiet and stand here while I figure this out,” I say.

I assumed I’d put the watch on, press a button, and be on my way.

“That’s not how it works,” Jesse says, messing with the manual the watch came with. “You need to sync it with your phone.”

“Why?” I say. “This has nothing to do with my phone!”

There is no easy response. No matter how rational, how true, how scientific Jesse’s answer is, it will be in vain.

“Let me just set it up for you,” he offers. “I’ll make sure it’s only steps you see.”

“NO!” I say. “I have to do this myself!” 

“Why?”

“I have to know how to do things like mow the lawn and taxes and how to use this watch because someday you will die, and I won’t know how to do any of this and I don’t want to be a kept woman.”

Jesse puts his hands up. “OK,” he says.

“OK,” I say. “But you should stand here while I figure it out. Please.”

I wear the watch for all of January.

February

Nothing says romance like getting a colonoscopy, and so that’s what I have scheduled for Valentine’s Day. Those in the know will shudder not from the procedure, but from what happens—what must happen—prior to the procedure. I promise I won’t go into details, and also I promise that most people will say it’s not all that bad, but I can create drama checking out a library book. Also, I love to eat. I’m generally not the sort of person who enjoys talking to people, but if I’m hungry—or there is a donut in the area—I will do what I have to do. When I was in preschool, one of the first reports my parents received went a lot like this: Callie follows directions, colors well, and is learning her letters. She keeps to herself though, except to ask when snack is. Probably snack was at 11. This is why I can’t make it to noon without Goldfish Crackers and a Dixie cup of apple juice. This is all to say that prepping for a colonoscopy means not eating, and I was very stressed about this.

Even before the metaphorical (but maybe not?) tsunami that is coming, life is really hard for me because except for coffee, I can not eat anything but Jell-O. I admit though, I’m a little excited because I went to hear David Sedaris a couple of years ago, and he said he lost a ton of weight eating only Jell-O. David Sedaris is my only hero. Not really, but maybe. “Maybe this experience will make me as good a writer as David,” I think, pouring orange, green, and yellow liquid into pint glasses.

Time will only tell.

Around noon, a friend stops by to see how I am doing. 

“You know the code,” I text her when she tells me she will stop by. “I don’t have the energy—or will—to get off the couch.”

This is how she finds me, on the couch underneath a yellow blanket the color of sunshine and butter (yum, butter).

“I can’t do this,” I murmur. “I’m so cold.”

“You’re cold?”

“Hungry.” I say. “I mean hungry. See? I’ve lost my words.”

She laughs, and  goes to the kitchen to get some Jell-O.

“This too shall pass,” she says, handing me a Four Horsemen Fighting Irish pint glass filled to the brim with green Jell-O.

”That’s a lot of Jell-O,” she says.

“It’s all I have!” I whine, plunging the spoon into the slime and slurping up what I retrieve. I am Gollum. “I don’t have the strength for what’s to come,” I say.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “Just remember—don’t trust a fart.”

It is some of the best advice I've ever received. 

By 9 that night, I stand in the kitchen—one hand on a jug that even Costco would say, “that’s a large amount of product,” and say to Jesse, “I have nothing left to give.”

Except I did. What I have to drink wants everything. It is a Dementor, or, at least what Dementors drink for happy hour. 

I walk into the hospital soulless. 

I can't answer anything at check-in. I can barely stand up.

“Name,” the nurse says.

I look at Jesse.

“Date of birth,” she says.

I look at Jesse.

“Address,” she says.

“All I know how to do is go to the bathroom,” I say.

At my utterance of “bathroom,” I understand—viscerally, palpably, tangibly—what it means to be called. It is not a good feeling. It is a knowing that must, at that very moment, be released.

“Where is the bathroom?” I say as though I am Michael Jordan at the 1997 Finals Game 5 against the Jazz when he had the flu and still scored thirty-eight points, winning the game. This is the kind of urgency I have.

The nurse points me in the direction I need to go, and I stumble my way to the place I will make my three-point shot, my ally-oop, my slam dunk, only to find a fluorescent yellow sign telling me that women between the ages of thirteen and sixty cannot use the bathroom without permission.

I hobble over to where Jesse is. 

“I have to ask to use the bathroom,” I say, nearly in tears. (I probably would cry except I have no liquid reserved for my eyes.)

“So ask,” Jesse says, which ticks me off.

“Why do you have to make everything so simple?” I hiss.

“Why is this such a big deal?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to ask to use the bathroom! You don’t know! You’re a man!”

“Callie. What are you talking about?”

I then proceeded to talk about sexism and women’s lib and also the patriarchy in the waiting room surrounded by people twice my age, and if they are looking at me strangely I pay no notice. I'm on a roll. “Take up your walkers and follow me to the bathroom, ladies!” I want to say. We will make history, my new geriatric BFFs and I.

So swept away and energized am I by my new passion, I do not hear the nurse calling my name. Jesse squeezes my hand to let me know my time is up, and I look her way.

I stand up slowly, and with conviction.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, squaring my shoulders and doing my best to stop doing the pee-pee dance.

“Of course,” she says and the two of us begin walking toward pre-op.

“But there’s a sign,” I say. “On the door? I have to ask.”

“Yes,” she tells me, pushing a button to open the doors to Colonoscopy Land. “We have that there so we know to give you a cup for a sample.”

She hands me a cup and I stare at her blankly.

“To make sure you’re not pregnant,” she says.

I am no longer Michael Jordan. Or Susan B. Anthony. I am no longer anyone of significance. “Those days are over,” I mumble, handing her the cup. She nods, puts the cup back on the shelf and hands me a surgical gown and plastic bag for my clothes.

Within minutes, I am surrounded by nurses putting suction cups or whatever those things are called all over me. One is the anesthetist telling me all about “being under” and the risks involved while another is checking my pulse. One is looking for my vein to stick an IV in, and still another is firing questions at me: do I smoke, do I drink, do I exercise, do I have or experience anxiety and/or depression?

No.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.

“Are you taking anything for it?”

“No.”

The nurse reads from the computer, which tells the pills I have been prescribed.

“I stopped taking those in November,” I say. “They don’t work.”

The anesthetist stops giving me facts about death and paralysis. The nurse stops looking for my vein.

“What surgeries have you had?” the other nurse asks.

I tell her about the eye surgeries and another one when I was six. “And then I had a D&C because I miscarried.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry,” they all say and I am reminded of angels.

“It’s OK,” I say. “It was almost eighteen years ago,” and at that statement, we all know it isn’t OK. No amount of time will lessen the hard fact that I once held what would’ve been.

Is this how it is for women my age? Is this how it’s always been? We go from procedure to procedure, from tasks to chores, to meals to laundry, to work, to church, expected to bear the miracles and the laments like a leaf green and swaying in the summer breeze, no sign of the absolute pain and confusion and impossibility of the bud that had to make its way through the bark; no hint of doubt that the branch would hold them.

Enough of the metaphors. I am brand new and old at the same time. I have been through so much and nothing at all.

March

At the gentle insistence of Jesse and my doctor, I start taking my meds. I continue to run, but by now, I know I will not be able to complete the half-marathons I signed up for. I am still so clunky and slow. Also, I have a pain in between my shoulder blades so fierce I am convinced I am the sinner in the hands of an angry God that John Edwards was writing about. 

I schedule a massage. The masseuse tells me I react to touch as though I’m in danger, which is ironic because I’m the most relaxed I’ve felt in months. What am I like when I’m stressed?

“Your body believes it’s in danger,” she tells me again. “You have to rid yourself of danger,” she says pressing her knuckles in the center of my back. “You’re holding onto trauma.”

“I have not been traumatized,” I say, and I know I sound irritated, defensive.” I just feel everything,” I insist.

She says nothing but keeps working.

I go to a chiropractor next, who I have to convince that I’m not distressed. “You hold yourself like you’re anticipating a fight,” he says.

“This is my baseline,” I say. “I’m fine, really.”

Just crack my freakin’ back, I want to add.

I attempt a yoga class, an exercise I can’t stand. For one thing, I think it’s dumb that it’s called “a practice.” Also, I don’t like the word “mindfulness.” All I am is mindful. I’m a writer for crying out loud. Very little escapes me. I don’t need another thing that pulls me even deeper inward. This is why I love running. It forces me out—out of the house, out into the world, out of my head.

I try though—to hold the poses, to remain still, to push deeper. 

During one class after a series of downward dogs, planks, and cobras, the instructor tells us to find child’s pose. As if that’s hard to find, I think, pulling myself into my knees and stretching my arms on the mat. It’s like the easiest of all the poses, I whisper to myself as my head presses into the mat and my inhales become deeper, and with each exhale, I begin to cry.

April

I’m having brunch with a friend whose daughter is a freshman at the University of Michigan, and she’s in town to visit. We are in a restaurant that is decorated with old-time coffee pots that hang from the walls, and signs telling funny jokes about coffee. Women who look exactly like us talk over colorful mugs and plates of scrambled eggs.

 I ask her how everything is going.

“You know the Phoenix bird?” she asks me.

“The one that gets burned and then rises from the ashes?”

“Yeah.”

I ask if she’s the bird or if it’s her daughter.

“I think it’s both of us,” she says.

“Are you on fire, or are you rising?”

“I’m not sure,” she says.

She tells me that her daughter is taking a class on the mother-daughter relationship in literature. “Do you know,” she asks, breaking a piece of bacon in half, “that mothers and daughters go through similar phases at the same time?” She pours herself more coffee from the carafe on our table. “It’s some kind of reciprocity, I guess. We each have these opportunities for growth that happen but we can only do it if we let each other go.”

“And you learn all this through literature?” I ask.

“I guess so,” she says.

“Ok, so there’s Bella and her mom,” I begin and she laughs.

“I’m pretty sure they’re not discussing the Twilight books at the University of Michigan.”

I tell my friend about a time my mom visited me at college. It was during my freshman year, sometime in early spring. I remember because it was in the spring that I finally began to enjoy college. From August until about February, I hated it.

Somehow she’d gotten into my dorm and up to my floor without calling or being buzzed in, so I didn’t know she was there, and we ended up greeting each other on the stairs.

“My mom was radiant,” I tell my friend. “It was like, I knew she was my mom, but she was Grace too,” I say. “She looked so happy,” I continue. “And it wasn’t because she’d seen me. It was because she was happy.”

Hanging on the wall between the two of us is a picture of a house with a pink heart on its front door. “Home is where your story begins,” it says in words on the sidewalk leading up to the front door.

“I mean, I get it,” I say, pointing to the sign. “But it’s not where our story ends, you know?”

Bella never tells us why she leaves the place she loves for one she hates. It would be an easy argument to suggest that this is simply a convenience to the plot. How else is Bella going to meet Edward? However, in a scene where Bella is looking at herself in the bathroom mirror—her ivory skin and dark hair—Meyer establishes that Bella had to leave home in order to become who (and what) she was going to become. Bella had to leave to become herself.

Bella’s mom tells her that she’ll come and get her as soon as Bella calls, but Bella says she sees sacrifice behind her mom’s eyes. I’m not sure it’s sacrifice Bella sees so much as it is the knowledge that we can’t keep our daughters. And they cannot keep us.

“You’re right,” I tell my friend. “We are both the Phoenix.”

She nods, and sips her coffee. “We’re both burning and rising.”

“At the same time,” I say, raising my mug. “To burning and rising. To always being the Phoenix.”

May

For Mother’s Day, Jesse gives me a legit FitBit. It has a pink band, and he sits next to me while I set it up (no texts, no emails, no socials). Hadley gives me eight tiny, sparkly bracelets that match my watch, and Harper gives me a pink sports bra and matching pants.

I haven’t run in a long time, but I’m still going to the gym. I’ve started taking Zumba. The class I go to is a night class, and the instructor turns off some of the lights and brings out disco balls.

Lately, everything I do leaves me winded and depleted. Taking Zumba though, I am reminded of the reason God invented hips.

There’s no cueing with this kind of group exercise. It’s all watching and then eventually the movement comes by feel, by intuition. It’s scary at first, but eventually I get the rhythm of it. Or I don’t, but I don’t care. I move anyway. I take up space anyway.

Tonight, I dance and I check myself out in the mirror. I’m glittering. The disco balls make me look like I’m dancing on fire, and I am strong and I am beautiful and I am not the girl I once was, and I am not a memory.

I am here. 

Callie Feyen lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with her husband, Jesse, and their two daughters, Hadley and Harper. She's written two books: Twirl: My Life in Stories, Writing, & Clothes, and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet, both published by TS Poetry Press, and she has essays in Coffee + Crumbs' Magic of Motherhood book. Callie holds an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.