|November 27, 2012||Posted by Emily under Uncategorized|
For the last week, I’ve stayed (mostly) off of the internet.
And for that, you are welcome.
After raining some optimism on the blog about what’s going on with my body, things got worse. Much worse. As did my ability to whine, complain and feel sorry for myself. So again, you’re welcome for my absence.
Unfortunately, I am back. I apologize in advance for the ugly that you are about to read. You might want to just click that “x” button in the righthand corner of your browser now and save yourself from the next several paragraphs of “omg my life is over, I haven’t run in a WHOLE WEEK”. I won’t be offended.
Since I last checked in, I tried running, since you know, the doctor told me I could.
I stumbled through 3 very torturous miles on Wednesday afternoon where every stride left me wincing in pain.
I signed up for a Turkey Trot, not to race, but to be able to spend a morning running with friends. Because, you know, the doctor told me I could…provided I run slow and shit.
And it (insert choice expletive) sucked.
Not the friends part, THEY were great.
And ran great. First races ever. Fastest races ever. Longest races ever. All great.
But the excruciating pain…not so great. THAT deserves more than a few descriptive curse words.
The race itself was 6.2 of the worst miles of my life. I kept trying to tell myself “be thankful that you’re allowed to run, you could be totally sidelined. Enjoy this!” But then I would move an inch, or a centimeter, or a millimeter and my body would offer me a harsh reminder that nothing about running was fun at that moment.
It’s pretty rare for me to feel that way about running. In fact, I’m quite positive that was a first.
By the time I crossed the finish line, it felt like my rib was violently battling my side to escape with every weapon known to mankind and winning…by a lot.
The rest of the day was ugly. I limped through post-race mimosas with my friends. I stumbled home and collapsed in bed (flat. on my back. since everything else hurt, or more accurately, hurt worse). I called my mom and complained to her because while the internet might not have to feel sorry for me, I can usually count on her to dole out some sympathy. Moral of the story, EVERYTHING hurt. Breathing, moving, sneezing, moving. All of the things hurt all of the time.
A friend picked me up for Thanksgiving dinner and I sat in his house with a heat pack glued to my left side and a stiff drink in my right hand. It was far from the happiest holiday moment in the history of my life.
The next morning I called my doctor. It’s exceedingly rare that I question medical permission to sweat, but on Friday morning, my body was counting down the seconds until her office opened so I could do just that.
She was instantly concerned with the escalation of my symptoms and sent me off to the emergency room to undergo a bunch of tests.
As I’m sure you can imagine, it was super fun morning. And also super inconclusive. They (/my doctor) were baffled as to why things were so bad, so gave me a handful of prescriptions for heavy doses of heavy painkillers, retracted the green light to run, and sent me home to lie in my bed and do nothing.
And that’s what I did for 5 straight days.
I barely moved. I certainly didn’t exercise.
I did watch every program that On Demand offers. Gossip Girl, Top Chef, Nashville, I am all caught up on all of the shows that you never need to see.
I read for fun. Books about marathoning and ultra running. Which is actually not really fun at all when you can’t run.
I didn’t do laundry. Because for the first time in months, I don’t have a laundry basket overflowing with sweaty shorts, socks and sports bras.
I did go to the movies because that seemed like a harmless activity. Argo. One of the highlights of my week-o-injury. So good. Go see it immediately and then come back and thank me. I’ll wait.
I thought about never leaving the extraordinarily comfortable movie theatre seat since it was the best position I’d found for my ribs all week and flirted with the idea of watching every movie that the Georgetown theatre was showing. My friend eventually got me to part with the seat with the promise of holiday cocktails.
I did cry. Twice. Once when my doctor told me to go to the ER. And once when I couldn’t take the pain from laughing while consuming aforementioned holiday cocktails (my friend would make me add to the story “at my own joke”). I’ve never felt more awesome (or hotter) then when I sat in the bar, clutching my side and simultaneously sobbing and cracking up. I’m sorry you couldn’t all be there to see me in my finest moment.
I did go out for my friend’s birthday dinner which was conveniently located a block from my house. And I didn’t wear sweatpants for the first time in days since she threatened to end our friendship if I showed up in spandex. I did, however, go home uncharacteristically early so I could reunite with my bed, painkillers…and sweatpants.
I did start my Christmas shopping. Online. Both for my family and for myself. When I can’t run, I buy myself running things. Because in some crazy part of my mind that helps me cope and makes me feel like I’m doing something productive for my fitness.
I did choose a new goal marathon. Actually I chose 3 new goal marathons. TBD which one my bitch rib cage will decide to cooperate for.
And that brings us to today. Still in pain. Still not running. Still miserable.
I know life could be MUCH, much worse. Believe me, I do. But when you’re sidelined and in severe pain, it’s easy to forget that. Dramatic? Yes, absolutely. But also a little true. Especially when you don’t really know what’s going on or how much longer you have to cope with it.
As much as I joke about being Type Z, I don’t do well with the unknown when it comes to running. I want someone to be able to tell me “three more weeks and you’ll be better. Six more weeks until you’re back at the track. Nine until you can run another marathon.” It’s frustrating to hear my doctor remain stumped about why it’s taking my body so long to heal and why the drugs aren’t kicking in faster. And going to bed every night hoping I’ll wake up feeling better, and then not waking up feeling better (or rather, waking up from the pain frequently throughout the night) keeps me in a pretty depressed state.
My sincere apologies for the downer of a post. Sometimes a girl just needs to whine and vent in a very public manner. I promise I’ll try to cut it out (at least over the blog, sorry mom, no such luck for you) effective immediately.
Cross your fingers, toes, legs, arms, eyes and shoelaces for faster healing and I hope (/optimistically promise) that next time I check in, it will be less woe-is-me-my-life-is-so-hard-because-I-can’t-run-and-also-I-hurt-a-lot complaining, more running.