We’re all talking monkeys on an organic spaceship.
It’s possible, anyway. I figure whatever we are, that’s what God (or First Cause, or Creator, or whatever name you use) decided is best so if some monkey in the past began to evolve, and now this is what we are, well, who are we to argue? We’re not monkeys now, right? I mean, just look around you at how well we all behave, no screeching unintelligibly because someone stole our banana, no running around aimlessly in circles while scratching our head, no shoving each other out of the tree, no shunning the least because they don’t fit in our tribe.
Had the big visit with my new BRDr.FF, Dr. L, yesterday to find out about the MRI. I don’t want to borrow trouble, but at this point, to tell you the truth, she and I both thought it was going to be the S1 herniated; send me off to the neuro and scoop the damn little thing out. I was really hoping so. Easy fix. Just pull the stinking little SOB out.
You two know how I always do things the easy way. I’m a rule follower. I’m a follow-the-packer, just let me sit back here and watch. Straight line, easy breezy lemon squeezy, no arguing, no questioning WhyHowWhen.
Dr. L reviewed the results of the MRI with us. A few little things in L1-L-4, but nothing – not a thing – no thing – nothing – that could be the cause. And the S1? Absolutely normal. Finally. What I’ve dreamed of since I knew the term: “normal” + “Terri” in the same sentence. Just when it helps least.
God bless Dr. L flying around on the organic spaceship, she is trying so hard to figure what is going on. Guess what? And you will both spit your coffee on the screen so I’m just warning you right now to put the mug down and swallow before you finish reading this sentence: she said I’m currently one of the most complicated cases she has. Meanwhile I’m beginning to fear I’m just a hypochondriac or a nutjob.
Hubs probably heard the Hallelujah Chorus repeating in stereo in his head when heard her say that. COMPLICATED. It’s official. Terri makes no sense. Thank you thank you little baby Jesus in your crib, listening to the cows moo you to sleep, THANK YOU.
She did an ultrasound on my hamstring hoping to see if there were some trigger there, but no luck. I’ll have another MRI Saturday to look over the entire length of the hamstring and I will freeze to death on Pluto (sorry Pluto. To me you will always be a planet and if I have to freeze to death I want it to be on you) before I get a copy of that damn thing. If BRDrFF Dr. L finds that it shows nothing I’m off to the neuro. Hopefully the neuro will only look at my back and legs because if he looks inside my head he’ll charge us a finder’s fee.
Saturday was the St. Jude Memphis Marathon weekend. A friend of mine is injured and couldn’t do the marathon she’d registered for. She is also a St. Jude Hero, having raised money for the kids. We kept ending up in the same volunteer spots throughout the day, a lot of it on the field at the two finish lines, watching the runners come in, both of us so happy for them. But even though it made me feel like a complete jerk, I was jealous. No matter how horrid the run, I wanted it. I wanted to be coming across that finish line, happy, exhausted, hurt, disgusted, anything. I just wanted to feel that sweat and the hum in my muscles (not the electricity). To enjoy the sweetness of finally stopping, the first taste of water – even lukewarm – that tastes like nectar.
Now I’m going to admit that I’m an idiot. Again. Why Why Why (OMG there’s that word again) do I always end up an idiot? After the race I did something stupid: I went by the MRI place and got a copy of my report. I didn’t know I could do that. So I read it and googled all the terms and stuff, and of course I saw words like andycondializing scuppernongs and blerferating hagis and thought well sh*t my back is totally screwed. My brain was flying through the universe on an organic spaceship in hyperdrive and it was taking me along.
Hubs is feeling pretty frustrated. This is not unusual, of course. But maybe he’s like a couple thousand points higher on the frustrated scale right now. I’m guessing this based on how red his face gets and the frequency and duration of his tongue biting. Sunday morning when I woke in the middle of the night I was about as down as I’ve been about all this. Lying there in bed at 2am trying to go back to sleep all I knew were pictures in my mind of race finishers, the shouts of their families, bispurtilizing discotomies and the little spasms in my leg. I thought about what I could post to the MRTC FB page in the morning, something about the race, of course, since so many Memphis runners had done it. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see all the FB posts and emails and joyjoyjoy about their race or the sorrow of a missed PR or sore quads. I was turbo charged by the steroid shot(s) and frustrated.
When I could no longer stand it I got up and went to the kitchen. My Garmin was on the counter in its charger. And right there, encompassed in a half-charged Garmin, were all the long runs and short runs, tempo runs and speedwork, heartrates and elevation maps of all the runs I haven’t done and as embarrassed as I am to tell you this, I sobbed. I sobbed and snotted and hiccupped and sniffed while tears ran down my face and neck and cried that I just want to run.
Let me tell you both something right here, especially if one of you is a husband. Maybe someday your wife, in the morning, sober, after having coffee, takes you by the shoulders and states, “next time I go bat sh*t crazy crying and sobbing, I want you to come to me, ask me what is wrong, try to understand what I’m saying and then try to fix it.” You should then get that in writing, drive immediately to someone who can notarize it, get it framed and hang it prominently in your house. That way she will know where to find it to throw at you next time she melts down.
I know – pull up the big girl panties – and I have, it just took me a couple of days. Apparently I’m a slow responder.
Someone mentioned recently that I have not drawn any pics lately. I thought this might be particularly helpful for any husbands out there, and so I will close with this. As always, copies are available for $25 and if you’d like it autographed let me know, prices have gone up, I’m sorry, but what with being the National Posterchild and Spokesperson for the BFOS I’m getting a bit busier and my time is valuable. Drive the picture over to my house and I’ll autograph it for $37.82. No tax, we’re a nonprofit.
Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me. 