Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

Archive for the tag “steroid injection”

Let’s face it.

*Boink* Terri, how’s your face?
*Boink* Good, how’s your butt?

I’ve well established my love for running. Even when I don’t like running I love the luxury of not liking it. You earn that right by doing the leg work and getting through the good and the bad, the happy and the sad and … oh … wait, I feel a song coming on – Oh, yeah, play it –

Let me be the one you come running toOoOoOoooo…let’s, let’s stay togetherrrrrr…

If I can’t run, you can still go ahead and crank about your run, because I’ve been there. You earned it too.

As always, good comes with the bad. I’m far enough along in life now to know that. I am not far enough along in my journey to embrace it at the time the train leaves the station — but maybe I’m a bit faster on accepting the journey before it’s over. I’m going to have to live about a million years to get there, though, stubborn first-born that I am. Maybe you have to get so tired of failing that accepting finally seems the better option. Because, let’s face it, once you get through a tough time there’s no Karma anywhere that says, OK, they’ve had enough. And my butt falling off, while the focus of many blog posts, is nowhere near the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, or may face someday. Other than pain, it’s kinda funny to have your butt fall off. You can be the butt of many jokes. “No, butt really, how are you feeling?” “Not to butt in here, butt…”

The falling off butt has been reprimanded and sternly taken to task. Killer is talking to Dr. Krackurback and they will come up with new contortions to strengthen whatever is weak. Glutes are like the playground bully – the biggest guy on the field, he makes the little guys do his work while he rests on his a$$ putting on useless weight. Literally.

I am incredibly and undeservedly blessed with an awesome array of friends. Friends who share my warped sense of humor, who love to trade barbs, who listen to me bitch and don’t try to fix me. Friends who understand why starting out a run with two socks and ending it with one sock is a world of humor that can be mined for days. Friends who understand that posting the words “Taco Bell” on facebook can create a day’s worth of interaction.

Oddly and inexplicably, Monday morning I woke not thinking “WHAT DAY IS IT WHAT TIME IS IT WHAT DO I NEED TO DO” but, “erm. My face is hot.”

I’m not Sandra Bullock or Charlize Theron. My face is not HOT.

No, my face was hot – bright red blotches – like I’d spent 12 hours at the beach under a polka-dotted umbrella.

By Tuesday afternoon it was not just red, it was firehouse red and it was everywhere and it burned. Lotion, cold compresses, nothing alleviated the heat. I called one of my BRFF’s. “I think something is wrong.”


“Yeah.” I text’d a pic to her.  “I think my face is falling off.”

“Oh, sh*t yeah. You need to see a doc.”

Three hours later at the 24 hour clinic (thank God for Suduko on Iphone) I was called back. The triage nurse was entering my info in the computer as I sat down.

“So..” she said as she turned in the chair, “What’s going on?”

“There’s something wrong with my face.” I could see it in her eyes. Oh…sh*t…

The Doc couldn’t decide what to do and initially offered a steroid shot and dose pack. “No! nononononono! No, I’m sorry, sorry – don’t mean to be rude, sorry – but, no. No steroids. Sorry. No.”

“no. nope…nope..nope…” I trailed off, shaking my head, staring at the floor, thinking of 2am ‘roid fueled house cleaning.

oh, hell no

Another hour later with an entire elbow of purple bruise (I told her my veins roll…she didn’t jump on the train) and a beet red face I walked up to the outdoor window at the Pharmacy. The doc had thrown a steroid creme, some Zyrtek and an antibiotic at me in hopes one would stick. The tech looked up. I could see her trying not to see my face. You know — don’t look don’t look don’t look — ah, sh*t. Then you see in their eyes, I hope I didn’t flinch, I flinched, didn’t I?

I have no idea what happened and I’m still pretty disappointed I didn’t morph into Sandra Bullock rocking with her Newtons, here, but my face is much better and never fell off. I’ve totally got that nail polish, tho.

sandra bullock

AND….I’m going for a run today!  It’s 33 degrees, misting ice but the sun is coming out and the BRFF’s are heading out!

Let’s face it:  Life is awesome.  Even when it’s not.  And the sun always comes out again.

Breathing underwater.

My new BRDr.FF, Dr. L, slammed my falling off butt with another steroid shot Thursday in the SI joint.  She said give it a bit and take it out for a shake down run, she wants to see what happens.  Since it continued to hurt and actually felt worse after the injection I waited.  Friday as the day progressed I was surprised to find that sitting wasn’t hurting near as much, and I decided to try a run this morning.

I felt like I was in high school again and after waiting nervously for weeks, the boy I secretly liked had just asked me to prom.  I carefully charged up my Garmin, located the HR monitor, got my inserts back in my running shoes.  I opened the drawer I’d just recently and reluctantly tucked my running stuff into, thinking I wouldn’t be seeing them again for a while, and happily dug out shorts and shirt.

It certainly did not hurt a bit that it’s a gorgeous fall day, brilliant blue sky, green, gold, russet leaves drifting in a breeze, birds chirping, cheeping, and flitting through the trees.

Spring, 2011 we moved into this house.  I had not been running consistently due in part to the plantar fasciitis but mostly due to the incredible busy-ness of renovating a house, keeping up a house we were trying to sell, and then moving.  Stir in a few emergency trips to my parents…it was a crazy time.

My usual route leaves my house and across the busy street at the end of our block.  There’s a lovely upscale neighborhood about 1/2 mile away with a lazy winding road running through it.  The developers wisely kept all the old growth; houses sit back from the road and 30′-40′ trees line the narrow road, natural undergrowth left in place.  It’s like running through the country although I can vaguely hear the semi’s on I-40 a 1/2 mile away.  I like the sound of trucks on a freeway, the thought of where they’ve been and where they’re going, zooming along in their little contained worlds.

Last spring when I started back running I ran this road consistently, reveling in the beauty of these beautiful trees leafing out, the birds serenading each other and wooing, daffodils and crocus popping up through a layer of leaves.  Today I ran that same route, watching the swirling helicopter seeds float past me, squirrels rushing to the trees for more hickory nuts.  It’s not uncommon to see deer here, usually does with their young ones in the spring, with their tweens and teens later on.  I didn’t see any today but last time I ran I saw three young buck, antlers just fuzzy bumps, young enough they could still be friends.  They stood back, but didn’t run.

I have friends who are former runners (committed runners, people who did well under 3 hour marathon PR’s in their younger days) now walking stiffly with worn hips and knees (and – not from running, but genes).  They ride like crazy now, and we’ve discussed before my opinion of that as a substitute for running.  At this time, and I’m trying to keep an open mind, biking as a substitute for running is like getting a turkey sandwich with an apple for dessert while sitting next to someone with a steak and sweet potato fries and a huge hot fudge sundae for dessert.  It’s a moot point, I can’t bike anyway, it makes my toes go numb from the pressure on my back as I lean over the bars.

If I rode like this it would be OK:

Gotta find me one of these.  Since I frequently match her cranky attitude, however, I might find myself cackling as I biked.

As I grow older there are many things I want to begin cutting out of my life, but activity is not one of them.  I do not want to be that person who cannot carry two bags of grocery to a car.  I will do all I can not to lose that.

I want to get rid of the worrying, catastrophizing (my counselor made that word up, it’s a great word) OMG this is the worst that could happen, that is horrid, what if, how can we, who will…impatience – that car is in my way, when is the paper getting delivered, my K-cups pouring forth nectar within 30 seconds.  I want to slow down.  I want to look around.  I want to feel this day and live it, not wait it out, which I have done too many times.

When I run I am using the body I was given.  I am making muscles what they were formed to be.  I have life flowing through me and I am alive to the world.  I feel that in some way I am doing honor to the honor I was given:  life.

I love the act of running.  Looking down watching my feet blur on the street.  Hearing my breathing.  Street level, looking at the world go by on my own power; open to the world on this little private journey, burning some endorphins.  I’m alive in that moment, for just a moment existing in that present.  Yes, of course, most of the run still has a running conversation of when, how, next, then – but the hum is quieter and running further in the background.

There are so many things we no longer do for ourselves.  When my daughter was born I used cloth diapers.  The first few months I didn’t have a dryer and I hung them to dry in the Arizona sun.  I made her food.  The grocery was about a mile away, if I only needed a few things I put her in the stroller and walked to get milk and things.  I washed the dishes.  We had a swamp cooler but no A/C.  On Saturday she’d play in the hose while I’d wash the car and let her play with the bubbles.

Now I order Christmas online, getting most of it done on Black Friday as I sit in my climate controlled office in order to avoid the traffic.  I drive everywhere, the washer and dryer left spinning and the dishwasher chugging away at home as I run my car through the car wash after I buy gas.  I’ve got a sack full of microwavable veggies and pre-formed hamburgers, automatic bowl flush cleaner tabs.  Hubs’ 100% cotton button downs go to the cleaner.  I haven’t ironed in so long that while typing this I had to stop and think where the iron might be.

I’ve recently discovered a poem that has grabbed hold of me, circling in my brain, landing for consideration then lifting up and swirling back into my thoughts as it floats about lighting little dark corners of my day.  I have too often and for too long held my breath and dug my toes into the sand, determined to stand still and maintain a moment, a place or an event. I stand, clinging, to imagined wrongs, to imaged rights, to how I think things should be.

I want to learn to tumble through life embracing it all, living in the coral castle, learning to breathe underwater.  When I run, I feel I am.


Breathing Underwater

I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you;
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.

A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences.
Respectful, keeping our distance,
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always, the fence of sand our barrier,
always, the sand between.

And then one day,
-and I still don’t know how it happened –
the sea came.
Without warning.

Without welcome, even
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but coming.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death.
And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.
And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,
And you give your house for a coral castle,
And you learn to breathe underwater.

Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ
from an unpublished work

Of all the Joints…

I’m at the computer for the first time today, having spent the day on the couch but definitely needing a different position for a minute.  The short of the story is I did get the S1 Epidural steroid injection; I also got an SI joint injection which I didn’t expect but when the Dr. hit that magic sore spot in my lower back we realized I have an issue there, too.  Checking in with Dr. Google on the SI joint and accompanying issues I think that’s been part of it all along but I’m not a Doctor nor do I play one on TV.

I said, “all I want is to get back running.”

I’m thinking no response was a good response.  Don’t you two think so?

Here’s what I know right now:

  • It hurt much less than I’ve been led to believe from Dr. Google
  • Like, none
  • I’ve spent the entire afternoon on the couch and even HGTV can get old after a while
  • It did take about four hours for HGTV to get old
  • It takes a lot longer to get old if you get to watch Scott McGillivray, who makes me feel happy because he resembles T1
  • I have the first four seasons of True Blood, thanks to Lisa O, so that’s next up on the DVD rotation, or maybe my laptop in bed.
  • I hear Eric Northman is pretty dreamy, for a blond
  • I am very blessed with wonderful friends
  • Who are really good cooks
  • There are doctors out there that do look you in the eye and discuss with you what’s going on without their hands on the doorknob (or, in this case, the skimpy curtain separating me and my enormous hospital gown from the rest of the world)
  • To all of you docs out there that do that:  Thank you.

Hi, so mom got up and went back to the den, I guess she got tired of writing to you.  She put some silver plate into the TV box and now she keeps saying something about Eric Northman who I have no clue who that is but she like, sighs a little bit so apparently he does a really good job on HGTV building houses or something.

Anyway, we did finally get rid of all those miniature humans banging on the door last night and mom let Murph T. Idiot out of the bedroom and he ran around the house barking and sniffing everything like he thought they’d all buried bombs around here.  Which that is just stupid because he can’t be a bomb sniffing dog because I think bomb sniffing dogs, for the most part, have to be around men and Murphy hates men.  Except dad and my brothers.  And PUNKIN.  He likes PUNKIN a lot.  Probably because of the food dropping thing that goes on. Murphy is an idiot, but he knows where to find food, I will give him that.

Wish he could find some food for me.  Mom keeps hiding it all.  Mo gets a bunch and I get a little tiny bowl.  Sometimes Mo doesn’t eat all his and I sneak in and eat it.  Except mom has supersonic hearing and makes me quit.  Then I try to eat some of The Idiot’s food but mom keeps putting a saucepan lid on it.  I thought the saucepan lids went with the saucepans, but it doesn’t look like it.  Maybe it’s like a steering wheel which doesn’t have wheels, as far as I can tell the few times I’ve had a near death experience and mom says STOP I have to hold onto The Steering Wheel which doesn’t have a wheel.  Then she started cramming me into the box of Near Death so now I can’t try to escape that car thing, I’m just stuck inside it inside the Box Of Death.

I hate the car thing.

Anyway, since Mom is asleep in the den, drooling, I thought I’d spend some time surfing the net and I found a new video of my favorite cat Henri.  *Sigh*.  He’s french and he speaks french and he’s so swavy and debahnair and aloof.  Aloof is very important in a cat.  I love Henri.  If I ever learn how to write a letter on this internet thing I’m going to ask for his autograph.

He just released a new movie, if you’d like to watch it.  I think you should.  He’s quite excellent and handsome.

Here’s a link to the video

I’d like to paste the video in this page but I can’t find mom’s credit card to buy that option.  She’s so cheap.

*sigh* Isn’t he dreamy???

Now Mom’s in bed so I’m going to go sleep on mom’s head and dream of Henri.

Oh, here’s my favorite picture of Henri.  This is the picture I would have him autograph.  Maybe he’d sniff my nose, too.  It would be nose sniff love at first sight I bet.

See?  He understands me.

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