A couple of years ago I was sat in my Dr's office, thoroughly convinced he was about to diagnose me with an under-active thyroid. I was actually kind of excited to hear those words because it would explain why I was having such a hard time losing all of those baby weight pounds. Instead, I looked on as I heard him saying the words, "Sometimes bad things happen, and sometimes they happen to young people who have young families," he glanced at 4 month old Charlotte, "and it's really sad."
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Was he still talking about me?
To confirm his suspicions the Doctor referred me to a neurologist who, after electric shocks, blood tests, and MRI's, deduced that I did indeed have an autoimmune disease. I received a phone call one evening and, sitting in the car park at Target, listened as the neurologist told me I had lupus. There was that punched in the stomach feeling again. The Doctor wasn't particularly informative; he gave me a list of vitamins to take, a magic combination that would apparently keep my symptoms under control. He told me vaguely that I'd be at a higher risk of heart disease, higher risk of osteoporosis, higher risk this, higher risk that.
In a daze I marched back into Target and bought my vitamins, determined to do whatever I could to prevent any more damage. The vitamins would help to prevent further nerve damage, but it was that night that I resolved to do everything I could to keep my heart healthy, everything I could to maintain the density of my bones. So, in what turned out to be a long road to losing the baby weight (since my self diagnosis of a thyroid problem was way off the mark) it was the lupus diagnosis that kept me motivated to exercise, and which piqued my interest in weights training.
Six months ago I was asked if I'd be interested in becoming certified to teach Bodypump; I was a volunteer at the YMCA and the manager thought it would be a good fit. After taking a class I wholeheartedly agreed. It was perfect, I'd be paid to do the kind of workout I loved whilst actively arming my body against impending doom (read, osteoporosis). It turned out to be six months of hard work. Initially thirty people were selected, but before being sent to training we had to attend mandatory classes for four months, where our form was assessed with a fine tooth comb. We attended master classes where the numbers were whittled down and eventually 16 of us were finally chosen to attend the two day certification:
As one of the other instructors informed me, "They want to break you." She wasn't far off the mark. Two days of constant working out, video assessments, group feedback, serious bootcamp, and working lunches. We were all exhausted and pushed to our absolute physical limits. There was sweat, there were tears, and in my case there was also blood, because I tripped and fell down, hard!
Those who passed the training then had the task of auditioning to see if we would get a regular class on the schedule. We also had thirty days to complete a video of ourselves teaching the class, which was to be submitted for assessment at Les Mills. It was definitely not an easy process to go through (Les Mills set the bar high, which I both love and hate them for) but since I'm new to this whole group exercise malarky it was certainly a valuable experience, especially since the YMCA footed the bill!
Six months later and the ordeal has come to an end, and yet it's just beginning. I'm officially on the schedule, teaching two classes a week, and the other morning I got a rather exciting e-mail in response to my video submission. It contained one wonderful four letter word: PASS! Interestingly enough, that same morning I finally had a follow up appointment with a rheumatologist; I thought it was about time I met with a lupus specialist. He had another four letter word for me after looking at my bloodwork: FAIL! He informed that I'd been wrongfully diagnosed- there's apparently no way I have lupus. The blood work ruled it out. I guess one way or another I've come full circle.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Was he still talking about me?
To confirm his suspicions the Doctor referred me to a neurologist who, after electric shocks, blood tests, and MRI's, deduced that I did indeed have an autoimmune disease. I received a phone call one evening and, sitting in the car park at Target, listened as the neurologist told me I had lupus. There was that punched in the stomach feeling again. The Doctor wasn't particularly informative; he gave me a list of vitamins to take, a magic combination that would apparently keep my symptoms under control. He told me vaguely that I'd be at a higher risk of heart disease, higher risk of osteoporosis, higher risk this, higher risk that.
In a daze I marched back into Target and bought my vitamins, determined to do whatever I could to prevent any more damage. The vitamins would help to prevent further nerve damage, but it was that night that I resolved to do everything I could to keep my heart healthy, everything I could to maintain the density of my bones. So, in what turned out to be a long road to losing the baby weight (since my self diagnosis of a thyroid problem was way off the mark) it was the lupus diagnosis that kept me motivated to exercise, and which piqued my interest in weights training.
Six months ago I was asked if I'd be interested in becoming certified to teach Bodypump; I was a volunteer at the YMCA and the manager thought it would be a good fit. After taking a class I wholeheartedly agreed. It was perfect, I'd be paid to do the kind of workout I loved whilst actively arming my body against impending doom (read, osteoporosis). It turned out to be six months of hard work. Initially thirty people were selected, but before being sent to training we had to attend mandatory classes for four months, where our form was assessed with a fine tooth comb. We attended master classes where the numbers were whittled down and eventually 16 of us were finally chosen to attend the two day certification:
As one of the other instructors informed me, "They want to break you." She wasn't far off the mark. Two days of constant working out, video assessments, group feedback, serious bootcamp, and working lunches. We were all exhausted and pushed to our absolute physical limits. There was sweat, there were tears, and in my case there was also blood, because I tripped and fell down, hard!
Those who passed the training then had the task of auditioning to see if we would get a regular class on the schedule. We also had thirty days to complete a video of ourselves teaching the class, which was to be submitted for assessment at Les Mills. It was definitely not an easy process to go through (Les Mills set the bar high, which I both love and hate them for) but since I'm new to this whole group exercise malarky it was certainly a valuable experience, especially since the YMCA footed the bill!
Six months later and the ordeal has come to an end, and yet it's just beginning. I'm officially on the schedule, teaching two classes a week, and the other morning I got a rather exciting e-mail in response to my video submission. It contained one wonderful four letter word: PASS! Interestingly enough, that same morning I finally had a follow up appointment with a rheumatologist; I thought it was about time I met with a lupus specialist. He had another four letter word for me after looking at my bloodwork: FAIL! He informed that I'd been wrongfully diagnosed- there's apparently no way I have lupus. The blood work ruled it out. I guess one way or another I've come full circle.
That's great news Rachel! All of it! Great job at the YMCA--looks really tough.
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