The Dragon is Trying to Slay Me
I posted about my triumph over writing last time so I guess this time I'll tackle my current battle with my other major "hobby." Really, both of these activities are so much a part of my identity, who I am and how I enjoy life that it doesn't feel very accurate to call them hobbies. They are more like lifelines. The other one (besides writing) is of course, my exercise/training regime. It's funny that I would describe it as an activity that I enjoy because so often in the middle of it I don't like it much. But the fact is, all this physical activity helps me cope and enjoy my life in so many other ways-- and I do enjoy the sense of accomplishment I get from it.
This week has been sooo hard without it.
I've been training for a marathon, which maybe you remember, was something that I just felt like I needed to do this year. I only planned to do it once, seeing as how I've had pretty regular problems with my feet and ankles for over four years now. Melanie was training with me, we'd started in plenty of time, I had plenty of miles under my belt, everything that the "experts" say you need to run a marathon.
I knew injuries could be a problem (been through it already). I prayed there wouldn't be any. (I've been injured before but never in a way that kept me from races I was registered for.)
But about two weeks ago my left foot was starting to give me real trouble. It had been sore following my ten mile training run, but nothing unusual (let's face it, my feet have been hurting while I run for years now). But a couple of days later, by evening, it was agony to even walk. Days of rest made no difference. I would get up in the morning OK, but by nighttime, I would want to cry from the sharp jolts of pain that would start on one side of my foot and travel all the way up my calf.
Not good.
A visit to the podiatrist showed that my tendon was inflamed. Oh, and that I had a piece of bone floating on the other side of my foot from a fracture that had healed on its own, sometime during the past six months or so (that injury had probably contributed to the stress on my tendon). I have stage 1 tendinitis, which the doctor said we were lucky to catch early.
He wants me to give up all long distance running altogether. But I'm already registered for two races, one in January and one in February.
I've been fighting depression without my natural antidepressant. The doctor put me in a boot for two weeks and told me not to exercise at all. Yeah, right. But my options in a boot are limited. I've been doing chair workouts designed for seniors with bad knees, and I don't even break a sweat. No endorphin rush from that.
I'm trying to be patient through this healing process. Two weeks isn't a long time to hobble around (but it's such an eternity also-- I can barely muddle through my housework!). My husband has been encouraging and patient-- he's been through his share of injuries and has always bounced back-- but I'm so afraid. I'm afraid I'm not getting any better (both my feet now hurt all the time because the boot throws off my natural gait completely). I'm so afraid I'm going to lose this part of me that I depend on so much. Then I feel selfish for struggling with something that is so minor compared to what some of my friends are going through. Why can't I just smile and shoulder my burden bravely, like my courageous friends do with theirs?
I am trying to count my blessings. The exercise ban came at the same time I was finishing up my NaNoWriMo challenge, which meant I needed to be sitting at my desk and not exercising or doing housework all day anyway. It came when S had a cold and I can't go to the gym anyway. I get a little extra sleep in the mornings because I don't have to get up early to get some of my cardio in.
And I'm hoping. Hoping for good news when I go to the doctor on Monday. Hoping that there is still a chance I can do my races-- if not the long distances, then at least shorter ones at the same races. Hoping that I don't have to give up running altogether.
Hope is a good thing. It's the reason I keep going.
This week has been sooo hard without it.
I've been training for a marathon, which maybe you remember, was something that I just felt like I needed to do this year. I only planned to do it once, seeing as how I've had pretty regular problems with my feet and ankles for over four years now. Melanie was training with me, we'd started in plenty of time, I had plenty of miles under my belt, everything that the "experts" say you need to run a marathon.
I knew injuries could be a problem (been through it already). I prayed there wouldn't be any. (I've been injured before but never in a way that kept me from races I was registered for.)
But about two weeks ago my left foot was starting to give me real trouble. It had been sore following my ten mile training run, but nothing unusual (let's face it, my feet have been hurting while I run for years now). But a couple of days later, by evening, it was agony to even walk. Days of rest made no difference. I would get up in the morning OK, but by nighttime, I would want to cry from the sharp jolts of pain that would start on one side of my foot and travel all the way up my calf.
Not good.
A visit to the podiatrist showed that my tendon was inflamed. Oh, and that I had a piece of bone floating on the other side of my foot from a fracture that had healed on its own, sometime during the past six months or so (that injury had probably contributed to the stress on my tendon). I have stage 1 tendinitis, which the doctor said we were lucky to catch early.
He wants me to give up all long distance running altogether. But I'm already registered for two races, one in January and one in February.
I've been fighting depression without my natural antidepressant. The doctor put me in a boot for two weeks and told me not to exercise at all. Yeah, right. But my options in a boot are limited. I've been doing chair workouts designed for seniors with bad knees, and I don't even break a sweat. No endorphin rush from that.
I'm trying to be patient through this healing process. Two weeks isn't a long time to hobble around (but it's such an eternity also-- I can barely muddle through my housework!). My husband has been encouraging and patient-- he's been through his share of injuries and has always bounced back-- but I'm so afraid. I'm afraid I'm not getting any better (both my feet now hurt all the time because the boot throws off my natural gait completely). I'm so afraid I'm going to lose this part of me that I depend on so much. Then I feel selfish for struggling with something that is so minor compared to what some of my friends are going through. Why can't I just smile and shoulder my burden bravely, like my courageous friends do with theirs?
I am trying to count my blessings. The exercise ban came at the same time I was finishing up my NaNoWriMo challenge, which meant I needed to be sitting at my desk and not exercising or doing housework all day anyway. It came when S had a cold and I can't go to the gym anyway. I get a little extra sleep in the mornings because I don't have to get up early to get some of my cardio in.
And I'm hoping. Hoping for good news when I go to the doctor on Monday. Hoping that there is still a chance I can do my races-- if not the long distances, then at least shorter ones at the same races. Hoping that I don't have to give up running altogether.
Hope is a good thing. It's the reason I keep going.
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