大象传媒

A yoga studio, ten o鈥檆lock in the morning. Eight women on eight mats in a circle. Four ceiling fans spinning slowly. Streaks of sunlight coming in through the third-floor windows, like outstretched fingers trying to grasp something out of reach. In one corner, a rack of pamphlets: Cancer Fighting Foods, Relay for Life, and The American Cancer Society.

鈥淲eek Three is when your hair starts to fall out,鈥� one woman remarks to another, as they wait for class to begin.

A ten-minute drive separates 大象传媒鈥檚 Cancer Hospital from 大象传媒鈥檚 Cancer Support Program Yoga Studio. Surrounding the studio, there are no ambulances or white coats; instead, there is a Hardee鈥檚, a nail salon, and Mardi Gras Bowling Center.

The eight women in the circle come here every Friday morning, or every Friday morning that they aren鈥檛 too sick from chemotherapy and radiation.

鈥淚t helps me make sense of what鈥檚 happened to me,鈥� one woman tells me. She wears an off-center wig; her eyebrows are penciled on. She has deep creases around her eyes. 鈥淗elps bring me peace.鈥�

鈥淚 think the cancer can make you feel so trapped,鈥� another woman adds. Her thin, pale arms remind me of toothpicks. 鈥淵our body is falling apart and that鈥檚 the only body you鈥檝e got. Yoga makes me feel more free.鈥�

Three of the women are dressed in those loose-fitting floral-print tops that grandmothers seem to love, while one wears a pink Race for the Cure t-shirt. Four of the women have short white hair; two have blonde ponytails. The air smells faintly of lavender perfume, and the sunlight from the windows warms the polished hardwood floor.

The instructor, Maureen, sits in the middle of the circle. She wears wire-rimmed glasses that make her look stern, but her smile is welcoming. At five after ten, she presses a button on a stereo, and the soft strumming of guitar strings spreads across the room.

Maureen鈥檚 voice is gentle and smooth as she directs the women through the routine. Her words seem to float in the warm, lavender-scented air.

鈥淏reathe deeply and just be,鈥� she tells the class. 鈥淛ust be.鈥�

Within the first half hour, one woman gets up from her mat and disappears into the adjoining single-stall bathroom five times. During her fifth disappearance, the sound of retching comes through the bathroom door just as Maureen sings, 鈥�Ommm.鈥�

The woman reappears with a flushed face and bloodshot eyes.

鈥淛ust started a new treatment,鈥� she mumbles apologetically. 鈥淚rinotecan.鈥�

鈥淭hat鈥檚 a tough one,鈥� one woman says.

鈥淲orst diarrhea of my life!鈥� says another. A third nods in sympathy.

When Maureen leads the women into the tree pose, they clasp their hands above their heads. One woman stops with her arms sticking straight out like a scarecrow鈥檚. She turns her head from side to side, examining the arms as if surprised that they are her own.

鈥淗aven鈥檛 been able to lift them up this far since surgery,鈥� she announces with a grin. The woman beside her starts to clap her hands, and the others follow her lead.

Eleven o鈥檆lock. It is time for the Savasana, the Final Relaxation. The women lie on their backs with their toes pointing up at the ceiling, and Maureen passes out pillows and blankets. Once the women are settled, Maureen returns to the center of the room and shares a verse from the poet Rilke:

Let everything happen to you

Beauty and terror

Just keep going

No feeling is final.

No one moves or speaks. Rilke鈥檚 words hang in the air. After twenty minutes, Maureen announces that the class has come to an end.

鈥淵ou can stand up to go whenever you鈥檙e ready,鈥� she tells the women. 鈥淧lease take your time.鈥�

They linger. Their reluctance is almost palpable, as though they are waging a silent protest against the world outside these big third-floor windows and polished hardwood floors. Maureen simply smiles at them in understanding. After the last woman finally ties her shoes and makes her way out nearly forty-five minutes later, Maureen tells me: 鈥淚 always plan to stay about an hour extra. It can be so hard for them to leave, and 鈥� well, at least in this room 鈥� I never want them to feel like they have run out of time.鈥�