Sick? Okay. Injured? Yeah. Over it. Thank you nervous stomach. Appreciate it…
Kill me now.
I’m sure all these nerves are for nothing, but that’s just how I’m rolling these days when it comes to my knee prognosis. Three months ago, after a beyond disastrous Wine and Dine, The Man was finally able to determine what was up my knees dupa. (Sounds kind of anatomically questionable, doesn’t it?) Anywho, he told me to get the spring-loaded, thankGodIfoundsomenotsoscary orthopedic shoes, stop running, start walking, and don’t even think about basically doing ANYTHING I was doing in the gym before, i.e., no lunges, squats, jumping, square dancing, or full contact sweater knitting.
Don’t even think about it.
Fast forward three months when I’m supposed to go back and see The Man about the next step. Which is TODAY (gulp!). I’ve been trying not to make myself crazy about what he’s going to say – “trying” being the key word here. I’ve got myself so worked up that he’s going to axe any future running, that I’m making myself completely crazy. Which is very unlike me. The getting worked up part. Not the crazy part. We already know that’s totally me.
Nope. Not even close.
The left knee – that was bothering me the most the last time I went to see The Man – has been feeling MUCH better. The right knee, which has totally made me its bitch for almost two years now, has other ideas in mind. Like aching. All the time. Which I could easily tolerate, and have. QUITE OFTEN. Until said pain-in-my-ass anatomical location decides to vault itself out of ache zone and jump full throttle into the, “So you think you’re going to get a sub 2-hour half do you? DO YOU? I THINK NOT” zone. That really pisses me off. A LOT.
See? Pissed off. A lot.
As I sit here typing this though, I know there’s not a damn friggin’ thing I can do about what The Man is going to say. I think the options may be let’s give it some more time, maybe try some PT, start back slow and with low mileage and see how it goes, go balls to the wall and see what happens – MY favorite option but obviously an unwise decision – or, the worst words EVER – run no more. #dunhdunhduuuuuuunnnhhhhhh…
This is my REALLY mad face.
No matter how much of a freak-out I’m having or however much sleep I lose tonight, the outcome will be what it’s going to be. I am just going to spend the next however many hours praying to the run and knee gods, and hope my sacrifices and temper tantrums over the past few
years months have been enough to get me to a better place. Because this whole I’mjustgoonadrinkalltheritasandeatalltheMooseTracks treatment plan is starting to do a number on me. And my waistline. Not to mention my liver. Must be the size of a darn watermelon by now…(not really but it sounded funny, didn’t it?)
Damn ceiling lights…
Stay strong my friends. You may need it to keep me from going off the ledge.
Enjoy the ride.
Ever found yourself holding your breath while waiting the doc’s prognosis? Did you pass out? Was oxygen intervention needed? Should I bring a paper bag with me? E-GADS.