The whole time I've been injured, I've been looking up websites where people talk about this stuff - real people. Not searching for medical advice; rather, looking for real people's stories of what they did and how they recovered. I found my searches pretty lacking. People really aren't talking about it. Which seems like a shame to me - and unfortunate. We have this huge resource of the Internet, so why aren't we sharing? I'm not talking life stories or sex tapes here - just a little information on what actually happens in real life when you're injured. Or sick. Or struggling with something.
I think part of the problem we face in our society - particularly in the medical community - is just that: No one is talking. Because it's hard. And sometimes painful. But I really believe it's necessary. After coming through cervical cancer, I will talk to anyone who will listen about the importance of women's healthcare and preventative medicine. I will go on for hours about pushing your doctors and being aggressive about treatment. I'll also talk about eating disorders. I've actually spoken to teen/pre-teen dance classes about that one. People need to be talking. Science only gets us so far; we need to learn from each other, too.
So, I thought I'd start a diary of sorts on here - of this injury. Especially seeing as it looks like I'll have quite some time to do so. Maybe no one will read it. But maybe just one person will. Maybe that person, like me, needs to know that someone else went through it and knowing what happened to someone else will make their experience a little less scary. Maybe I'll make a joke and it'll bring a smile to someone's face. Or maybe it's selfish and it will just help me count down the days - like an advent calendar. In any case, here goes.
DAY 1 - DIAGNOSIS AND DR. LUBLINER
As I mentioned in the previous post, my choice of doctors was based solely on insurance coverage and availability. Something I don't like to do, but it seemed like the only option at the time. That was mistake #1, I think.
After yesterday's post, I headed out to the doctor. The appointment was for 9:30am. When I arrived at the tiny, cramped office on the Upper East Side, the waiting room was full, and the receptionists looked frazzled. Uh-oh. Not a good sign. Periodically, I saw this older man in a white coat (the doctor, I assumed), flying around from exam room to exam room in the back, spending no more than five minutes in each one. BIG red flag. A pet peeve I have about doctors is how rushed they get. A good doctor will not let himself be scheduled to the teeth because spending quality time with each patient is often the key to proper treatment and recovery - in any field. I really believe that. My oncologist would sit with me for as long as it took for me to go through the list of questions I had pre-written (and a few I hadn't). It made life easier for both of us in the long run.
So finally, at 10:30am, an hour after my appointment was supposed to be scheduled, I am taken to an exam room. The doctor flies in, clearly frazzled, with his assistant, who he leaves with me to take a history and get information on the injury. Well, this assistant, while very nice, didn't really seem to be the sharpest crayon in the box - and she wasn't a very good listener. I had to repeat things over and over. Additionally, I went to this office because it was a "sports medicine" office. This woman didn't even know what a marathon was. Hmmm... Red flag.
Finally the doctor comes in. It's now 11am. He looks at both feet, then takes some measurements of my feet, then feels the affected Achilles for a couple of seconds and pronounces, "You have a partial tear!" Almost as if he were excited about it.
I kind of looked at him. "How do you know?"
"I can feel it!"
"Um. Okay, so now what?" I said. <And what the hell is so great about this, creepy weird dude? I'm not nearly has happy about it as you are.>
"Six weeks." He starts to get up and walk to the door.
"Six weeks?" I say. "What do I do? Is there a way to immobilize it? What's the process here?" He keeps walking, but turns around, seeming annoyed that I'm asking such stupid questions.
"We'll give you a boot. And you'll need physical therapy. Stay off it, though. My active New York patients are always in such a hurry. If you want it to heal, stay off it."
Um, duh? "Okay, well, where do I get the boot?"
"The receptionist will give you that information."
"Okay, well what CAN I do? Anything?" He's out the door. I've stopped him - barely.
"Well - nothing for three weeks." He keeps walking.
"Nothing?" I say. Now he's annoyed.
"Upper body and core. Limit your walking. Quads you can do. Anything but the lower leg."
"Swimming?" He's pissed now.
"No. Not yet. Not for three weeks. Make an appointment to see me then."
Bang. The door closes.
Wow.
So I make my appointment and am then sent, still not immobilized, a 15-minute walk away to a medical supply company where I use my insurance to pick up the damn boot. And have to figure the thing out on my own. Then I go to work.
I'm calling a new doctor today. The reasons, I think, after describing all that, are obvious. With the addition of the fact that I don't even know what's going on in my Achilles. I would like to know what it looks like - how severe the tear is, not just that it's torn. This is important information. I guess not to Dr. Lubeliner, though.
On the flip side, my colleagues are great. Very sympathetic - many of them also athletes or "weekend warriors" as the nickname goes. One has even had a similar Achilles injury. And my boss tore her calf muscle. So, there was a lot of emotional support there, which is good. And physical, too. No one's letting me run around the office taking this report here; bringing that spreadsheet there. They're letting me rest. One of the Managing Directors with whom I've always been pretty close, and who also makes walk/running marathons around the country his hobby, is buying me a "26.2" decal for my boot. My CEO, who calls me "Number Four" to remind me that I wasn't "Number One" and I need to keep pushing (I like this, actually - it's a good reminder), is nursing an injury himself. He offered any help/resources he can give me. While I have very mixed opinions about the guy, a few years ago, when I didn't have insurance, he had me go to his very exclusive foot doctor for a stress fracture on his dime so that I could get treatment and still run the NYC marathon that year.
Coming home alone was a little harder. I have a lot of stressors in my life right now - all pretty big ones. And this was just the icing on the cake, so to speak. It was kind of the last straw - the one thing that was helping me deal with all the other stuff has now been taken away indefinitely. Coming home to an empty house, having fought back the tears all day, I sat down and fell apart. In part, because it was just one more thing added to the pile. Plus, my goals for the year, running-wise, are seemingly shattered. It's likely there won't even be a marathon season for me. I have no answers to my questions - the doctor didn't want to take the time. I don't even know what's next, or if I'll fully come back from this because I don't know how bad it actually is. And I really, really needed a hug.
Having made tentative plans to go out later with a friend, I opted instead to stay in and wallow. Sometimes I just kind of need to get it out, since I spend most of my time keeping it in. This. Sucks. All around. And having very little information just makes it suck worse.
So, lessons learned thus far:
1) Go to the doctor at the first sign of a real problem - your body will tell you when.
2) Don't pick a doctor out of the phone book.
3) Talk about it. It helps.
4) Get out of the house.
I think that's it for today. We'll see how it goes with this boot. I already know it needs some decoration. If I make it prettier, maybe it'll feel less like an anchor.
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