(Credit for today’s post title goes to Chunker, who just walked across my keyboard – cool how it fits perfectly.)
Six weeks and 3 days since my last run.
6.5 miles walked this week. I wasn’t Little Miss Positive this morning when I stated glumly to the hubs that I walked 3-1/2 miles yesterday and cranked that today my butt (my real butt, not my falling off butt) is sore; apparently I’ve lost a lot of conditioning in those 6-3/7th weeks.
The new cat is sitting on the kitchen counter next to me, purring. Sweet, but more on Mr. No Mo another time. I do have to state, however, that this cat farts more than any animal I’ve ever met. Every. single. time. he. eats. And, repeatedly. If there were a cat farting Olympics he would win gold. But no one and nothing can possibly fart that often and that smelly without some type of aid, so probably USADA would soon be after him to determine if he were taking farting steroids. OMG. Thank you, little baby Jesus in your little wooden crib, for ceiling fans.
The Doc’s office called yesterday, 8 days after the nerve conduction test, to tell me what I already knew (pinched nerve) and to tell me something new: they want to do a nerve block.
That’s a bit worrisome in view of the thousands of people now waiting to hear if they have meningitis. Not that I’m trying to be negative, but the positive thinking thing is getting to be a constant effort and since I am, by nature and nurture, a realist (for more on being a realist read here and here), and with the euphoria of having a real diagnosis worn off and the pain not abated, struggling to squash that is, basically, a struggle. It doesn’t help that (aided by Dr. Google) I’ve come to realize that a pinched nerve is the gift that just keeps giving.
Uh-Oh – news flash – don’t pick Mo up by the tummy. It squishes out Mo farts. Just let him walk across the keyboard and then erase the extra typing. GAH. Be back in a minute, I’m going outside.
Ok, I’m back. *WHEW* Do you think I could find mustard gas masks on Ebay?
Friday I stretched as instructed by the PT and began some core work as instructed by the PT. Then, I did something very radical: I stood up. As I stood, Thor, the god of thunder, stabbed me in the back with his bolt of lightning. I looked at Killer, and Killer looked at me. “I guess we’re done for today,” she stated, staring at my bulging eyeballs and fried hair, and I hobbled to the car and drove home sitting sideways. By Sunday morning it had calmed down quite a bit; I was still getting random jolts causing me to jerk erratically as I walked, but the Finish Line Crew expects erratic and random things from me and no longer notices much of what I do, thank you again, Little Baby Jesus.
The realization that this is going to be a recurring issue the rest of my life, according to the PT, is still a bit new and still stings. I realize it can be controlled, that it will probably only rear its BFOS head occasionally, and I don’t have cancer or heart disease and I’m not under investigation by USADA (yet, but then so far the Mo farts have not escaped the house). But I’m still kinda bummed about the issue. Monday I rode my bike. Unfortunately afterward my first two toes went numb, which made the PT frown. Hey, the feeling came back after an hour or two. Cheer down.
OK, then, no biking. No running, no biking. I can: walk carefully, do the elliptical or swim (at which her beady little eyes began to gleam). You both realize that I no longer hate swimming, but I do not, to any degree, like it.
So here we are, Wednesday morning, I’m still Gloomy Gus despite all my mental rah-rahing and positive thinking. Probably positive thinking needs to drop words such as never, don’t like, don’t wanna and dammit. Replacement words: coffee, cat, dog, um…yay…um…ice cream (no, skip that, too many calories, dammit) ah, crap, I just said dammit.
Hopefully the Doc’s office will call today with the info on the nerve block, I’m sure it will be next week before it can be done at this point; apparently it will be 4-6 weeks after that for everything to heal and maybe my Christmas gift will be a run.
In the meantime I’m going to go check out gas masks. Or move my office outside. While I’m doing that, I’m going to paste below a very very nice note my friend, um, “Missy” posted on my FB page this morning (to meet “Missy”, visit here, “Missy” loves Zombies.) I thought you both might enjoy it. I know it made my day, even if she is a crazy nutjob runner.
Terri – Last Saturday I ran a 10k and when Sunday morning came around I just really didn’t feel like getting out of bed to run The Beast. I volunteered to help before the race so I had to go. It was nice talking with you and being the genuine person you are, it was impossible for you to hide your disappointment and frustration with your injury and not being able to run. (Oh how we crave that daily dose of endorphins to keep our minds and souls at peace.) When the race started and I started running I already had in my mind that it was going to be bad. Too little hormones and too much lactic acid was not a good mix that morning. Close to mile 4 I thought, “I’m done….. not feeling it this morning.” I figured when I pass that parking lot I am going straight to my car. Then there you were at the water station. I remember telling you I want to stop. And you told me I can if I want. But there was something about the look on your face that told me the rest….. “How dare you stop now?” “Wish I could finish it for you?” “WTF is wrong with you?” Something. I knew I had to finish. I guess I just want to let you know that your passion for running carried me this past Sunday and I am going to let it carry me through New York in a few weeks too. Thank you for sharing your passion, your pain, and your disappointment, because although it is awful for you, I bet there are many more of your friends out there who, like me, you encourage without you even knowing it. Stay strong, heal quickly, and keep encouraging others. Thank you sweet girl…