As I believe I've mentioned, I have this foot injury. What started in the top of the foot somehow moved into the Achilles, and I've basically been in a constant state of "What the fuck is wrong with you, ya damn foot?" for nearly three months now. I've tried pretty much everything - rest, no rest, ice, heat, cross-training, more rest, stretching...you name it. Except...well...go to the doctor. (Yeah, duh.)
Since the first day I felt something in the Achilles, I knew something wasn't right. And I've been brutalizing my body for over 25 years now, so I know from pain. I also know my body, and I can generally tell what it can work through on its own and what it can't. The problem is, this is the Achilles. If there's one part of the body as an athlete or dancer (or even just a regular person who likes to be active) you do NOT want to injure, it's this super-strong, ultra-vulnerable tendon on the back of the leg. The little guy works really hard, but when he takes a vacation...he takes a long freakin' vacation.
I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't want to know. Subconsciously, anyway. Much of me DID want to know. Did want to be smart. But I listened to everyone around me telling me it'd be okay in a little while because I wanted them to be right. I wanted to be wrong. I thought, I just need to have a little patience.
So after all the things I tried didn't work, come last week, I tried just freaking ignoring the damn thing. Tried to pretend it didn't exist. It's just that thing at the end of my leg - the thing that sometimes helps with the walking. Don't think about it. Don't talk about it. Don't research it. Just act like it isn't there. Always a good plan. I walked around talking to myself... "Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Ow. Ow. Ow. Stop thinking about it. Ow. Shit! Ow. Stop thinking about it..."
Yeah. See, the thing about that is, I think there are gerbils in there with these big diaper pins, who, at random intervals, play pin the tail on the achilles. Or the calf. Or wherever the hell they feel like, really. I can totally hear them..."Ha HA! I made 'er jump, Hank! You try - betcha ain't gonna make 'er do THAT!" "Awe, c'mon Gertie! Play fair. You got 'er while she was sleepin'!" YEEHAW!
Finally, I decided to stop fucking around because...well...it wasn't getting any better. I went to a physical therapist, who told me what I really needed was a re-alignment and a lot of stretching. Now, let me just pause here to say that this guy is GOOD. Like, good, good. And I believe him. However, we are back to the original problem - I should have gone to the doctor first.
But, stretching. I can do that. Stretching? That's the problem? Hell, I'm a dancer. I know from stretching. This'll be EASY! Stretch! Stretch! Stretching is good! Stretching will fix everything! Stretch often! Stretch always! C'mon Cap'n Crunch Foot, I'm HELPING YOU! (Did I mention I'm an extremist?)
Um...stretching. So day two of stretching started out fine. Sort of. Well, the damn thing hurt worse than ever actually, at first. But stretching did seem to help. By the end of the day, though, after minimal activity except for a little trial 20-minute "jog" (shuffle, really), I was in pretty big trouble. The Achilles was not happy. Not happy at all.
But, stretching, right? Stretching will fix it. So, I put on this weird sock contraption that I bought to lengthen the tendon while I sleep. I had tried to use it several times before, but always woke up in more pain than I went to bed with, so I'd discarded it as useless. I thought I'd try it again, though. I believe in second chances.
3:00am on Sunday morning, I woke up in what I can only describe as the worst pain of my life. I know people throw around phrases like that, but to put it in perspective: I've broken my hip nearly in half and still danced on it. I had a four-inch needle stuck repeatedly into my femeral neck. I've dealt with cancer. Pain doesn't really scare me.
But this did. It's all a little fuzzy now. I remember ripping off the sock contraption (not sure where it ended up). My first thought was ibruprophen (well, after realizing morphine would not be available). My second thought was ice. Both were in the other room. So I sat up in bed (holy hell...ow). I went to put my feet on the floor and stand up, and...THUD. I just fell. Right on top of the dog (poor Mrs. Gabby). And I went down hard. As much pain as I was in, the actual Achilles tendon? Couldn't feel it. I had no leg strength whatsoever. No ability to hold myself up or stand on that leg. It was totally useless.
I tried again. Same result. Except with the addition of vomiting. Lovely. What the hell did I do? Did I rupture the damn thing? In my sleep? I mean, if there's anyone with the kind of talent to pull off that type of injury, it would be me, but...seriously?
So, I did what any sane person would do. I went back to bed and tried to fall asleep. It didn't take long for me to get dizzy enough to pass out. But I woke up again a few hours later, still in pain, though it had dulled a bit. I got up...carefully. Bracing myself on everything I could find, I strategically made my way to the kitchen where there was ice, meds, and, most importantly, a pair of crutches.
After two cups of coffee, I decided: it was time to go to the ER. This was not getting better.
The closest hospital is located just up the hill from where I live - about 15 blocks away. Starved for exercise, it didn't take me long to decide to just crutch my way up there. Hell, at least I could get my heart going and some blood moving.
Valuable tip: If you are going to cut, break, maim, slash, tear or otherwise injure yourself and need emergency medical care, do so early on a Sunday morning. Just after the drunks have had their stomachs pumped, but just before the doctors go on rounds for an hour. It's empty in there. I, however, got there right as rounds were about to happen. I waited one whole hour for them to do nothing.
I asked the reception attendants for an ice pack. They said that the hospital didn't give those out. (?!?!?!) They also wouldn't give me any pain medication at all - not even ibuprophen. I just had to sit. And wait. Every few minutes getting contraction-like pains up through the entire leg. Like I was about to go into labor to birth those stupid gerbils.
Two hours later, I was sitting in a bed waiting for the doctor, and a nurse came by offering breakfast. I took one look at it and said, "No." Besides the fact that I have a bazillion food allergies, this breakfast looked...well...like it had already been eaten once. The nurse seemed shocked and asked me no less than three more times if I was sure I didn't want breakfast. She even went around to her fellow nurses, pointing at me and gasping to them that I did not want breakfast. The whole thing was starting to become a comedy routine. And then it got even better.
The doctor came over and I explained what was going on. She did some hands-on testing, determined there was no complete rupture, and then told me that there was nothing she could do for me. Nothing. She could give me an x-ray, but that was about it. She had no splints, no wraps, no ice. She couldn't do imaging - for that, I'd need to go to my specialist. She told me I was really smart about my injury and I was doing everything right already.
I just kind of stared at her. Really? You can't do anything? Nothing. At that point, I would have settled for a walking boot and a referral. But, nothing. I just kind of laughed as I waited for my discharge papers. I wanted to call that nurse back and tell her I would like my breakfast now - so I could throw it. I bet it would have made a lovely mural on the wall.
After all that, I went back home and continued the routine - ice, elevate, arnica, repeat. Eventually, it started working. By the end of the day, I could just barely hobble on the foot without searing pain. But it was "crunching" like a mother-fucker. Like something was scraping or chafing in there. Ewewewewew. Time to call the freakin' doctor.
On Monday, I finally found a doctor. He is a sports medicine guy, who would take my insurance, and who just happened to have an appointment on Wednesday. At that point, that's really all I needed to know.
I guess I'll find out something in a few hours. Or at least I'll get some pictures taken. But the thing is, I've really started to question my priorities, and I've had to take a big step back. Had I not been so obsessed with and impatient about getting back to training, I think I would have gone to the doctor a long time ago. I wouldn't have wasted all these weeks putting it off. And it may not have gotten this bad - it may have been better by now, even. The hard lesson I've learned more than once - and once and for all, I thought, after cancer - is that my health is always the number one priority. Everything else just takes a back seat when there's a problem. Go to the doctor right away. Don't waste time, and be aggressive about my care. Because if I don't have my health, I really don't have anything. Apparently, I needed yet another reminder.
So, I'm taking that step back. From running - thinking about it, talking about it, obsessing about it, dreaming about it, making plans for it. It will wait. Like everything else. Get better first. Worry about that later. If I don't get better, I can't do anything. I just may need to work on my patience skills a little more.
I don't know what the doctor is going to say today. I don't know what the damage is - what I've done. But knowing, I think, will be a lot better than guessing. I just hope they give me a pretty boot. And that it's not fucking pink.
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