When women in the Hope, Faith and Fitness class at Westminster Presbyterian Church flex their muscles twice a week, conversation, of which there is plenty, revolves around recipes, the weather and whose child was lucky enough to find a job after graduating from college.
There is no music. Class leader Gailya Woodyard said the sound would interfere with the conversation, which is usually disjointed.
The ladies gather twice a week in a small, nondescript upstairs room in the red-brick church along Washington Road in Upper St. Clair. Their backgrounds are as diverse as their ages, 45 to 60-something. They have a connection built on friendship, faith and the knowledge that more than a few share a connection through breast cancer.
Two of the seven participants are within three years of diagnosis. Others have family members who have battled the disease. One continues to recover and is going through reconstructive surgery. Another battles recurring bouts of lymphedema, an all-too-frequent side effect from numerous surgeries.
As the class name suggests, Hope, Faith and Fitness all play an important part in the emotional and physical recovery of breast cancer survivors and their friends.
When Donna Evans developed swelling in her arm after several cancer surgeries, she knew exercise was the key to maintaining the best lifestyle. Donning a flesh-colored compression brace that runs the length of her left arm, Evans begins each exercise session with a brief devotional. On a recent drizzly Thursday morning, the topic was how to develop strength in weakness.
The theme: "There is no need to panic as I am with you." The "I" referred to both Jesus and the other ladies in the exercise group. Religion is not the major emphasis. Friendship is. There's moaning and groaning and grunting and plenty of laughter.
As their muscles stretch each session, the ladies' minds engage in a banter of trivialities that make their lives different yet intertwined.
Kim Thompson was perched atop her 6-year-old off-white exercise ball she affectionately and appropriately named "Pearl." Her house had just sold, the new home was not completed and she was about to live in limbo for two months. Nothing akin to dealing with breast cancer, but, in its own right, an upsetting event. She'd invited friends to dinner, she said, and then realized she didn't have a dinner table.
"I borrowed a card table and we ate in front of the television," Thompson said to a round of understanding laughter.
Without warning, the topic shifted.
Marianne Hauser announced her son-in-law was called back as a contract worker after a long bout of unemployment. The news was met with expressions of joy.
Another asked about the upcoming weekend weather, expressing disappointment with the expected sunshine, only to explain she was expected to golf, didn't want to golf and was hoping it would rain.
As the ladies shifted topics of discussion, Woodyard softly instructed them to switch leg or arm positions. The ladies complied with Woodyard's cues without protest, concentrating more on the next item to be discussed than on the resistance of their muscles. Gossip is not a part of the routine. Neither are political themes.
"When does your son graduate?" Thompson asked Sharon Bogert, with Bogert lamenting the fact her son would soon be home expecting the refrigerator to be stocked with organic food and he doesn't have a job.
That's when Woodyard announced her daughter it still looking for a job and asked if anyone had any suggestions.
Thompson groaned after one particular shift suggestion by Woodyard and disclosed she stopped for a cookie on her way to class. Then she added, "We have nothing in the house. We ate Doritos for breakfast."
The group laughed. For a brief moment, cancer and the other stresses of life were forgotten.
As the class progresses each session, so does the complexity of the exercises.
In no particular order, the ladies expressed the following sentiments: "I can't bend that way" and "You've got to be kidding."
Giggling. Moaning.
"Oh wow, do I feel that in the front of my leg," "I feel it in my thigh," "I don't feel it anywhere," and to the final, "Now, how do I get up?"
Woodyard gears the class to the participants and to their individual needs. If someone can't do an exercise, they modify. Once, a man attended. He didn't come back.
Each lady supplies an exercise ball and, unlike the manly men who would never dream of being so silly, the women have named the large exercise round balls. Donna Evans' green one is called Emerald. Marilyn Young's is simply "Y" for the large initial she wrote on the plastic to distinguish hers from the others.
Sue Whyard has a pale blue ball and has not decided on Ocean or Sapphire.
At the end of each class, the ladies gather their belongings and leave the exercise balls, mats and resistance bands on the rack near the entrance door. Some hug. Some wave. A few rush out, others linger for a last goodbye.
Woodyard is the first to arrive and the last to leave. She has never had breast cancer, but has watched her mother, and her father, battle and survive the disease.
She said she knows the ladies are not just exercising, "We're venting."
And she knows that, too, is a part of healing.
