Yes, it’s been one glorious month of not-running. My weight at its low while running was 143 (that’s pounds, not kilograms — weight in kilograms as it applies to the human body is one of those things I could never quite wrap my brain around. It’s like a kilogram is too big so I could never properly relate it to what I learned using pounds). Today I weight 155 and I am fairly certain the extra weight is not from newly-developed washboard abs. Let me check. Nope, definitely not from washboard abs. In fact I have been quite naughty on my diet but have been taking steps to correct this of late. I’m hoping to avoid my peak non-running weight from earlier this year (157), so we shall see.
Thanks again, stupid ankle.
With no money for a bike helmet I am really hoping the friend of Jeff’s helmet can be found soon™ as riding is a way I can keep in shape without hurting my apparently delicate lower legs. There is still swimming to consider but I would still need to actually learn how to do it. I already know how to ride a bike and I’ve been assured my years of collective wisdom that one does not forget how to ride a bike. I would hope I am not the embarrassing exception to the rule.
I am still entertaining the idea that I might be able to run after two months, so I am planing on giving my ankle a good talking-to, followed by poking and prodding come mid-December. If all goes well I will try a short run. By then we may be knee-deep in snow but I’ll just consider that a bonus if I get tired and need to collapse, as a nice cushy snow drift would work well for that.
Has it already been four weeks since I last ran? Yes, yes it has.
And I hates it.
My weight has been slowly creeping up as I lose all discipline and self-control. I am becoming soft and squishy yet I know the ankle is not ready, so I must continue to bide my time and ignore those sweet, scrumptious donuts.
I had to do a little unintended running today (it was only across a Walmart, but still*) and am pleased to report no wrenching pain, muscle spasms or other immediate maladies occurred.
I have also improved noticeably on the other fronts. My body is clearly on the mend, hooray!
I also feel like I am beginning to come down with a cold. Boo.
* it was not due to criminal activity, merely grabbing a dark chocolate rather than milk chocolate mega almond bar for Jeff
It is November
The days are short and rainy
Jog with umbrellas
Not that I would ever jog with an umbrella. And not that I can jog for another 67 days, officially. But I have jogged in some rather inclement weather and since we will be right in the middle of winter when I next run I anticipate soggy or perhaps even snowy conditions — and I look forward to it!
Has it already been two glorious weeks? Yes, yes it has!
Today the unexplained pain in my left leg has eased and I have improved on other fronts as well. This probably means one of my butt cheeks will mysteriously come off tomorrow but I’ll just roll with it.
I am certain at this point that running after another four weeks off is not going to happen, but I think two months is a definite possibility.
11:00 a.m. In a scene reminiscent of Groundhog Day I find myself back in emergency exactly 24 hours after my last visit.
I had neglected to mention the mild annoyance of a general achiness in my left leg. This achiness worsened last night to where it interfered with my sleep, so I’m back. Whee.
The first guy ahead of me has come because he got a call from his sister that his mother had died. As he said to the receptionist as she arranged for someone to take him up to her, “This sucks.”
11:06 a.m. Busier than yesterday. I am expecting to be here a good while.
11:16 a.m. A kid in full hockey gear (minus skates) sits next to me, holding an ice pack over his right wrist. He is wearing pale blue crocs. He is quiet. I like him.
11:31 a.m. Still waiting in triage. This is definitely going to be a long visit.
11:35 a.m. Initial check-in complete, temperature and blood pressure taken.
11:38 a.m. A daughter and mother arrive, the daughter in tears. She has broken a finger. I get a glimpse of it as we pass. It looks pretty bruised and ugly.
11:40 a.m. More questions, I get my chart and am sent to the Minor Treatment Waiting Room. This place looks familiar!
I notice two clocks, one above the other. They disagree on the time. The incorrect one, an analog, still believes it’s daylight savings time. It also has a second hand that only ticks forward every five seconds. It’s a bit unsettling to watch.
Phone battery stands at 92%.
12:10 p.m. Moved into the exam room, woo. Same intern, wondering why I am back.
12:20 p.m. I am put into a gown for the initial leg prodding. Tentative diagnosis is ‘I dunno!’ I am advised to take Advil as I wait for the doctor to show up.
12:25 p.m. The doctor shows up, I repeat a few stretchy moves and he tells me the same thing as the intern — take Tylenol or Advil and come back if it seems worse or no better by mid-week. Oh, and stay mobile instead of sitting in a rocking chair all day like I normally do.
12:28 p.m. I am done and out of there. The exam room has two other people in it, getting a bit crowded. Today’s theme seems to be leg injuries. I spent a good deal of time sitting near a guy with crutches reading a copy of Runner’s World. I felt sad for both of us.
Two days ago I finished off 10 days of Cipro. This fun-sounding antibiotic was prescribed to deal with what was diagnosed as a bacterial prostate infection. After separate 7 and 10 day doses rather than feeling all fresh and zesty I found it hurt to pee. Having one of the world’s smallest bladders, this has proven inconvenient, to say the least.
And so it is that I begin my weekend sitting in the emergency of Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster.
11:00 a.m. I check in. Almost immediately I am called over, tagged and given an initial probing–blood pressure and temperature.
11:05 a.m. I am sent back to triage. Only a few moments pass before I am moved along to the area beyond triage. The people in this area do not look happy. There is someone in a bed with the curtain not quite pulled far enough to completely obscure him or her. The shadowy movements bring to mind a Stephen King story.
11:15 a.m I am told to follow the green arrows on the floor and wait in relative seclusion for the doctor. Nearby and unseen a child is crying out as if in agony.
At 11:25 the child is still crying but I can hear someone trying to calm him and talking about how they need to make sure they stop the bleeding. The kid seems unconvinced. Wailing continues.
11:28 a.m. Someone moves me further along to the Minor Treatment Waiting Room. There are more green arrows leading here. I think this is where I was supposed to be. Oops.
The man takes my chart and the wailing kid is farther away which serves to give his cries a more dream (or rather nightmare) like quality.
It is 11:31 a.m. There are five other people here, four of whom appear to be couples. The real waiting mow begins.
11:33 a.m. That kid is really starting to get on my nerves.
11:37 a.m. A young couple arrives with a girl of about three. They listen to the screams and the mother says, “She’s going to sound like that.” That’s the spirit!
11:40 a.m. I am moved to the room I initially went to by mistake and about five minutes later a young doctor attends to me to begin the ‘men of a certain age’ diagnosis in earnest.
After numerous questions and some hands-on probing I am asked to pee in a cup–again. I comply with attendant discomfort. She then decides a rectal exam is in order and for probably the only time ever a woman gets intimate with my butt. The thought of this being an indignity doesn’t occur to me due to being that certain age.
12:05 p.m. I await the initial results of the pee analysis. I notice now that the kid is no longer wailing. Smothered with a pillow, perhaps. The waiting room is now standing room only.
I have drained 5% of my phone’s battery typing this.
12:07 p.m. A man gets called in. He gets up very slowly. He fell off a ladder. I wonder if a person can walk with a broken back.
12:15 p.m. My thoughts turn to food. Mmm, food. I have no food.
I wonder why I am waiting for the urinalysis when the doctor said it would take several days to get a detailed sample of the culture. I will be very hungry in several days.
12:24 p.m. A little kid is taken in and starts crying. Pace yourself, I say. At least wait until the gloves come out.
Meanwhile, the other kid here decides to have a mini-tantrum. I say mini because I know she is capable of so much more.
They just wheeled a woman by in a bed that filled the entire aisle. Three people guiding it and there’s a machine on it that beeps like a heart beat.
12:30 p.m. My phone is down to 91%. I blame Bejeweled 2.
12:50 p.m. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m actually still supposed to be here.
A guy who sheared off his fingertip sits down next to me. No gushing blood. Yet.
1:00 pm to 1:45 pm. I am finally introduced to the actual doctor (the woman is a resident). He asks a lot of intimidatingly personal questions and I answer plainly. The initial pee sample comes back clean save for a very tiny trace elevation in blood glucose — consistent with other results. No infection to be found. He suggests a few possibilities, like a yeast infection (possible in men, says he) or maybe irritation in my manhood as a result of the antibiotics. But he doesn’t think these are the causes. He thinks it’s an STI even though I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for the past year. I am given pills to take for a week and another pee sample is taken which will be tested for STIs. I’ll know if I get a call in the next five days or so. no call means everything is fine there. He tells me to practice safe sex and for me and my partner to get tested for the biggies like HIV and such within the week. This is sensible advice and I’ll definitely follow up, even at the risk of getting Very Bad News because knowing is better than not knowing.
I’m going with the irritation theory, though. It’s the least disturbing.
As I make my way out of the exam room I notice another guy on the other bed. He is on his side and curled up in a bit of a fetal position. That doesn’t look good. At least he’s not screaming.
The person in the rolling bed with the beeping machine is trundled by again with even more people in attendance. I’m wondering if they’re just getting scooped up as the giant bed is wheeled down the halls.
All told my visit lasted a little under three hours but actual waiting times were not bad. The staff was friendly and efficient so as far as icky hospital visits go it went about as well as can be expected. My phone battery stands at 83%.
This has nothing to do with my ankle except perhaps if I poured Coke Zero on the ankle maybe it would magically heal it. Or just burn through the skin and leave a scar. I don’t know, I’m not a scientist or colagist or whatever it is they call soft drink smart people.
