Beware of medical residents. This is what I have learned. I met with my podiatrist today for the first time to try to figure out what is going on south of my right ankle. I mean really, it's been 5 weeks. Three of them mostly on crutches. Four of them without me driving. Well, not quite without me driving. This Wednesday I got stir crazy enough I drove myself to work out of pure spite. "Take that foot!" What I discovered from that excursion was that
a) my job is still not very exciting,
b) the extreme jealousy of having to cover for a coworker that is out of office to buy a puppy, and
c) that you must NOT ogle runners longingly while driving or you will nearly drift over the center line. But I digress....
So I met with my podiatrist and his resident today. Naturally, I had typed up a 500 word document detailing, in chronological order, everything that has happened in the foot zone over the last few weeks, my medical history, training, etc. I am a list maker (my rehearsal dinner involved a spreadsheet handed out to the entire bridal party itemized down to 15 minute increments for the whole day), but I also wanted to be sure that they had all the info and I had all my questions ready to go, as we might only get about 5-10 minutes together (thank you modern medicine). After going over my x-rays, doing a physical exam, reading my paper, he flipped over to my questions.
1. How long to heal?
2. How do I get back into running?
He laughed and said that he was surprised #2 wasn't first. Ha ha. I guess they get a lot of Type A well organized hyper-anxious injured triathletes in their office. But then he said the "S" word. No, not the four letter one I taught my kids when they were two years old..... SURGERY. My immediate reaction was to say "Nope. That doesn't work we're not doing that". Vigorous head shaking. His concern was there is zippidy-doo-dah on my x-rays to indicate a stress fracture, and that I must therefore have a Lisfranc injury - or rupture of the ligament over where the second metatarsal meets the heel bones. At this point I think he sensed my hostility and retreated to go over options with his boss.
Enter the boss doctor, who also looked over my x-rays and pointed out the vast nothingness indicating a fracture. He poked my foot in all the places that the resident had drawn on it with a pen (yes really) to show where it hurt. He told me that due to my excellent narrative (thank you 500 words!) he had enough evidence to request an MRI and ask the insurance company to pay for it. Whoot. He also said that his gut feeling is that I likely have a really bad bone bruise or a stress reaction in that area. (No surgery. Much better). But that we need the MRI to know for sure. Every question I asked after that was answered with "We won't know until after the MRI". So.
He DID clear me to swim and to drive until then, however. Yay! So my plan is to party like it is spring break and I'm a 22 year old with daddy's credit card until its time for the MRI. And by that, I mean drive to work, swim, take my kids trick or treating and try to catch up with friends some in case I'm stuck in my house for months after surgery.
I started right away with a swim workout at the YMCA this afternoon while little guy had his lesson. I was psyched when the woman in the lane next to me popped up and turned into my friend and physical therapist, Laura. Yay! Laura's always given me great advice, like "You'll be ok" (before first triathlon), "Eat something NOW" (after first triathlon) and "You know your goggles are upside down" (today). She even gave me a swim workout and some pointers on my stroke. I was so empowered I even strapped on one of those silly belts and tried pool running for a while. Then I came home and bought myself a waterproof MP3 player because I have the attention span of a squirrel on meth when it comes to water workouts. Thinking books on tape might help keep me in the pool long enough for actual progress......
Other strangeness going on this week has been a small flurry of press attention from my earlier post "We All Hate Mommy". A friend of mine works at a local newspaper and asked if she could reprint it. I said sure, and two days later my son and I were on the front page of the paper. I had friends texting me the picture, and a random woman I work with stopped me at the copier to tell me she read my article. Pause. And now she knows what I think about it. Another awkward pause. And that she agreed. Oh thank goodness. Anyway the whole experience was a little odd. I usually assume that no one reads what I write, and that certainly I am safe from those in my real life (or at least professional life doing so). Having a voice is actually pretty darn cool. Plus my son was super excited to be on the front page. Daddy even got him an ice cream treat to celebrate.
That's us right under his right hand.
The other noteworthy happening this week is this awesome kiddo being the youngest runner ever to complete a half marathon. That, and every running blog/site/commentor everywhere putting up her picture and inviting the population at large to judge her parents for letting her do so. Forcing her to. Stunting her growth by doing so. And so on and so forth. I'd just like to say knock it off!!! For one, no one knows their kid better than her parents, so don't suggest you know this little girl better. Everyone's experience is different. Furthermore, do your homework first - her parents are triathletes, she grew up running, they cleared it with her doctor first, and they ran ever mile of the race with her asking her all along if she wanted a break or to stop. Sounds pretty responsible to me. So congratulations to Keelan Glass and her parents for doing something pretty darn cool.
My daughter did her first 5k when she was four. It was our local turkey trot. She just hopped out of her stroller and ran the whole thing laughing and yelling "Gobble Gobble!" the whole way. She's my best running buddy. Sometimes she runs a mile, sometimes two, sometimes about 5 seconds and then starts whining. So we walk. Or stop to look at bugs. I have no idea where she got her athleticism (not from me or her dad for sure) but I'm grateful for it - she has something she loves. Something that literally helps her little high energy body sleep at night. She thinks Keelan is the bee's knees and wants to run like that when she is six. (Being five and a half, that's an era away). Run on, bad-ass kiddos....