First came the breast cancer, then: surgery, chemo, radiation. And when everything was over, the question: rehab – must it be? Sylvia Heinlein has overcome.
I just wanted to go back to life
“Treat yourself!”, My friends had summoned me. “A rehab is exactly what you need now.” I am very good at “treating myself” but in this case I did not want to. I had the breast cancer behind me, was exhausted from surgery, chemo, radiation. And now I wanted my peace, nothing more. For a year, I had nothing to worry about but my illness, it was enough for me. I did not want a treatment room anymore. Another round of confrontation with the cancer? Voluntary? I did not want to sit in the waiting room of life for another day. I finally wanted to start again, alone, anyway.
Overall, rehabilitation (from Latin: Restoration) always sounded unattractive to me, I had seen photos of old people in the exercise pool and hospital-like corridors. In addition: checks, appointments, doctor visits. Everything was very unpleasant. But at some point I had become too weak to contradict the worried, well-meaning insistence of my doctors and friends even longer. Allen knew that a rehab was for me. Would I later regret being denied? So I had joined.
Arrive
The Rehabilitation Clinic Schönhagen Castle is located on a picturesque Baltic peninsula, the places have cozy names like Dingelby and Nübbelfeld. That gives a sense of well-being, as well as the gentle hills and cute harbors along the Schlei, a fjord meandering snugly through the fields. And then there, just before the road ends at the lake, a small, charming manor. There is a red clinker castle, a park with old trees, a pond with ducks and beach chairs. Everything very reassuring. The receptionists make me feel like a long-awaited guest. My room in a modern extension is practical and comfortable at the same time. Nothing smells like hospital. Is an adventure, of any kind, that starts too harmoniously, to be trusted?
A plan
My first appointment: I sit in front of a gentle doctor, we discuss my findings and my wishes. For the first time since the diagnosis a year ago, there seems to be an infinite amount of time for me, it’s a deliberate conversation. “They were forced to rely on the doctors all the time,” he says finally. “They were like a rushed deer on the run, they were scared, now you need to rest, face that need.” My claim to prove to myself and to the doctors that I can quickly become efficient again brings me to my knees with so much flair. I am grateful and would like to cry a bit.
His colleague is putting together a program for the coming three weeks. In addition to a lot of athletic training, yoga and a mindfulness group, she also recommends a creative class. “Oh,” I say, “thanks, I do not need that, I’m already creative.” She smiles thoughtfully. “Go there for a while.” I nod obediently. Later, I’m somehow shaken on my bed. What exactly am I doing today? Have I become so tired, so needy, that professional attention can knock me out of my socks?
Schönhagen Palace specializes in cancer. At the welcome lecture in the light conservatory, the average age of the newcomers is somewhere between 50 and 70, for the most part breast cancer patients. Chief physician Martin Rotsch turns everyone in a good mood. “Morning Fango, in the evenings Tango”, the old spa, no longer exist. Rehabilitation is not pure relaxation. Rather, it’s about doing something for your own recovery.
“The masseuses were deleted years ago,” says oncologist Rotsch, “instead it said: Here you have sports therapists.” And then he says radiantly and convinces something very simple, which I will often hear here in the coming weeks: “Together with you, we will do something about the consequences of your illness, we will help you.”
The towel
From now on, I will be guided through the days protected. In a locker I find my schedule every morning. Swimming exercises, sports lessons, conversation and gymnastics groups, individual therapies, seminars and lectures, up to eight appointments a day. From now on, I always carry with me: my plan and a towel. The towel is mandatory, it serves as a base for chairs, loungers and mats in the treatment rooms and training halls.
If you carry a towel with you, it signals that you are on an important health mission. Here somebody does not jog around idly, but is on the way. Basically, I like to feed, but not here, never, because I understand that quickly: This rehab clinic is a perfectly oiled, highly efficient machine. It works to the minute to daily 260 people through their individual schedules to sluice.
Sports
In the sports hall, a training program will be developed for me, with all that I have avoided all my life: exercises on weight machines and gymnastics. The goal: to gain strength, flexibility, endurance, new confidence in my body. In the spinal column I understand what are glued muscle strands and that an exercise ball can help. I walk light-footed, nod in mild yoga and do something I would have bet I’m not going to get into: I give myself an “inside smile” in the mindfulness group.
At a lecture on nutrition I make a note of what is not healthy and finally ask in despair: “Is there any drug that is not prohibited and still fun?” The nutritionist is happy. Yes, there is something: sex and eroticism. Tired sighing in the audience. “Next year,” murmurs behind me.
Sometimes I can not do anything, just lie down on a splendid waterbed with massage jets, a soft play of light and fluffy music. And finally, I am where I never wanted to go: in the exercise pool. The water is warm, I walk with swimming noodle and other elderly in a circle. It is very beneficial, I think nothing.
The warm blanket of solidarity
The days go by their peculiar timeless rhythm in fixed dates. My home with all its responsibilities is aloof, I have no other responsibility than to keep my towel ready and commit myself to a plan that will strengthen me. “Island of the Blessed,” I think at some point and find it immediately absurd. Everyone here has a cancer diagnosis. But in fact, the clinic staff manages something amazing: it is so attentive and gracious that the mood is transmitted to the patients. Above all lies a warm blanket of solidarity. Everyone knows at least what the others have behind them.
There is an unspoken agreement among us patients to compliment each other, to be considerate, and to benefit others. Guests and hospital staff greet each other in the hallway, each and every time. I understand how much I longed for it – for pure kindness, for something simple, reliable in my time of timidity. In the castle café there is coffee, good cakes, beer, sparkling wine and wine. “We do not prohibit the alcohol,” says head physician Rotsch, “we only have him under control.” This works because even the lady in the café does not just treat patients as customers. She worries and passes it on, if someone wants alcohol too often.
“We take care of each other,” says Rotsch, “on our patients and in the team.” He does not shy away from words that one otherwise does not hear from mainstream medical practitioners. “Actually,” he says, “our mission is a spiritual one: to give people the courage to continue.”
Without a bad conscience just be alone again
For free hours there are all sorts of unexcited leisure activities in the castle: felting, pottery, absurd niceties handwork. I sign up three times in a list of participants and off again. The nearby cliff is too tempting. On the right the sea, which constantly changes its colors, on the left wide fields, on top of me cloud spots. In one of the idyllic harbors, I find everything the heart of a spa guest desires: a few cutters, gulls and a perfect fish sandwich.
Sometimes I meet fellow patients, often in pairs. There are also fixed groups during meals. But there is no table order, so I always find a single place for me. I rest from the conviviality that I usually demand, and am relieved to see that I’m not the only one. Every now and then I chat a bit, the talks come quickly to the essential. Nobody speaks at length about his diagnosis, she is quickly ticked off, like an unpleasant, distant aunt. But of confidence and fear one tells oneself here. From the return to the job, getting along with the partner, the family and friends, the hope overall.
A harbour
One day I paint a wide sky with clouds over the beach and wild roses. The art therapy group is small, everyone is silently working on the task of seeing themselves as landscapes. We do not know each other, but after an hour we talk about our pictures, about the stormy sea, cloudy fields, lightning in the sky, about the peace we long for.
At home, I had deliberately avoided contact with other cancer patients. I met her in waiting rooms or chemotherapy, but I did not want to be confronted with her feelings either. Here I can surprisingly accept them and also open myself. The small, atmospheric studio is a good, sheltered space, which seems to be felt by each and every one of us.
It’s soothing, I think dully after a few days and feel as exhausted as at home. Immediately I start to doubt. Should not I feel much better now? Am I doing something wrong? Is this whole rehab thing nice, but ultimately meaningless? Only slowly do I realize that this is not about quick success, but about patience and clarity. “We need your goal,” explains clinic psychologist Annkatrin Rogge. “Your destination is your port.”
I want to get well quickly, is not a helpful intention. More humble and better: work again for a few hours at a time or walk for an hour. And always stay realistic. “You will not reach your destination within the three weeks here,” says Rogge. “But maybe you’ll try it until your birthday?”
Yes, I think. I have a few more months until my birthday. It’s good. It is also good that I am no longer afraid of exercise pools with older people. Best of all, it will not go back. Only ahead. To the harbor.