Three separate neighbors shoveled my sidewalk and driveway this weekend. I used to shovel it all winter long, not because my husband wouldn't do it, but because I love the snow! It is great exercise and so peaceful. The quiet created by a fresh, deep powder is unparalleled. I can't do it right now and relying on other people is humbling.
After thanking my neighbors for their help, one said they wanted to show their appreciation for me and my boys. The last few months have been difficult but I always smile and keep my spirits high, offering to bring meals, fresh bread, and other baked treats to show my gratitude for their friendship and kindness. I transport the neighbor kids to and from school on frigid mornings, or walk with them on nice days so they have the safety and security of an accompanying adult. "We can't risk you falling on this ice. We need you too much!"
After finding out I needed surgery on my left hip, my mom ordered me a spin bike for my basement! It is an early Christmas present and I couldn't be more excited. Instead of driving to the gym every day and entering into needless competition with the elderly positioned beside my machine, I will now stride down a flight of stairs. Although, I will miss the ease of a quiet rivalry.
In 3 months, I've met 8 people who had the exact same surgery. Two were at the gym while I worked out. One woman, only 3 days post operation planted herself right next to me on a bike. I didn't want to pry, but crutches in hand, it was obvious she just underwent surgery. She had that grimace between her eyes that everyone accused me of for 2 weeks post op. "I'm so sorry, I don't want to be rude but, torn labrum?"
She smiled. "Yeah, exactly. How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess. Hey, I'm 8 weeks post surgery and look at me. I'm sweating up a storm on this thing, huffing away, with resistance I might add. It gets easier. And it isn't as bad as everyone warns. You'll be fine." I've seen her 3 times since and each time she looks so much stronger.
People rooted for me when I got knocked down. Strangers ask what happened, they cheered me on, and prayed that I wouldn't see this road again soon. Neighbors, friends, and family cooked, cleaned, and kept me company. I was never one to willingly accept help. I was too proud and I've quickly learned that is a character flaw. A fault that needed change. I've developed a new sincerity and the ability to graciously accept a kind gesture such as shoveling my driveway, not as an act of pity, but as love. On the way to physical therapy each week I see patients entering the hospital with their own struggles and I quietly smile, sending positive thoughts for a swift recovery.
It's not fair that I need to operate on the left hip only months after the right one was repaired. But what I've gained from this experience has made me stronger and more grateful. A life chalk full of irony and challenges is far more interesting.
~Roadburner
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Swimming and Standing Naked
I've accepted I'm the slowest swimmer in the pool. Once I realized my mediocre capabilities, my form improved exponentially. No longer do I thrust my arms forward with the speed of an incapable dolphin. Nope, you'll see me in the middle of all the lanes, the row boat. Slow and steady, fighting the turbulence of the surrounding Speed Crafts.
In the effort of trying to reteach myself how to swim, I focus on quality and time over the amount of laps swam in that stretch. I plunge my hands slightly down and out, finding their comfortable floating spot as described by the Total Immersion DVDs. Looking down at the bottom of the pool I feel each glide before catching up my hand to the other and starting once again. I am slow because I don't kick much. Just a couple flutters yield enough balance as I switch arms in the water. This technique works great with my new hip. I don't challenge it too much, but I get a consistent and low impact workout.
The pool was crowded today. Every lane was occupied and somehow I lucked out remaining alone in my trajectory. A woman next to me loved my incompetence. She kept waiting for me to catch up to her at the end of each lap, easily a half a lap ahead of me at any moment. Once my legs pushed off the wall, she would thrust herself full throttle and paddle like she was being chased by a great white. I felt the pull of the wake behind her and thanked her quietly for the help as I let her go. She needed a win today and I was more than happy to oblige.
The locker room, on the other hand, was desolate. Only one other woman took residence in the huge room. Somehow her naked body stood right in front of Locker 14. I pardoned myself, asking for a quick second to grab my shoes and bag of clothes out of the locker since her breasts leaned 2 inches away from where I needed to reach. She smiled, stood up straight, and without taking a single step backwards, allowed me 6 inches to pull my belongings free.
Immediately, she began talking. It was a booby trap! Don't get me wrong, she was unbelievably pleasant and while I have no shame over my body, I don't feel entirely comfortable holding philosophical conversations with another woman's breasts a foot away from my dripping body. She faced me with complete disconcert over her openness asking me how long I've been swimming and whether I enjoyed the water today. Now I was trapped. It would have been rude to walk away mid conversation so I turned my body slightly and changed while discussing my transformation from a drowning chicken to a slow and steady oar.
She explained how she feels happier when she swims everyday. Swimming provides health and a sensible mind. Because I am still learning how to perfect my stroke, she asked if I'd heard of the swim club that meets at another recreation center in our town, 3 days a week. They have a coach and each day they practice new drills, helping their cardio vascular and muscle strength. While I was fully dressed by this time, she was still standing there topless offering me a formal invitation.
I won't lie, I'm intrigued. Something about this exposed conversation entertained me. I've been surrounded by runners for so long, ones who clear their noses in public and pee on the side of the road, I've learn to accept a once unacceptable list of rules in order to belong. Now that I'm venturing into new lanes it would be nice to meet more people with similar interests. I could work on my form and learn more about the swimmer's culture. I must look enough of the part to warrant the invitation. Although, nude conversations are a stretch, even for a snot-rocketing runner.
~Roadburner
In the effort of trying to reteach myself how to swim, I focus on quality and time over the amount of laps swam in that stretch. I plunge my hands slightly down and out, finding their comfortable floating spot as described by the Total Immersion DVDs. Looking down at the bottom of the pool I feel each glide before catching up my hand to the other and starting once again. I am slow because I don't kick much. Just a couple flutters yield enough balance as I switch arms in the water. This technique works great with my new hip. I don't challenge it too much, but I get a consistent and low impact workout.
The pool was crowded today. Every lane was occupied and somehow I lucked out remaining alone in my trajectory. A woman next to me loved my incompetence. She kept waiting for me to catch up to her at the end of each lap, easily a half a lap ahead of me at any moment. Once my legs pushed off the wall, she would thrust herself full throttle and paddle like she was being chased by a great white. I felt the pull of the wake behind her and thanked her quietly for the help as I let her go. She needed a win today and I was more than happy to oblige.
The locker room, on the other hand, was desolate. Only one other woman took residence in the huge room. Somehow her naked body stood right in front of Locker 14. I pardoned myself, asking for a quick second to grab my shoes and bag of clothes out of the locker since her breasts leaned 2 inches away from where I needed to reach. She smiled, stood up straight, and without taking a single step backwards, allowed me 6 inches to pull my belongings free.
Immediately, she began talking. It was a booby trap! Don't get me wrong, she was unbelievably pleasant and while I have no shame over my body, I don't feel entirely comfortable holding philosophical conversations with another woman's breasts a foot away from my dripping body. She faced me with complete disconcert over her openness asking me how long I've been swimming and whether I enjoyed the water today. Now I was trapped. It would have been rude to walk away mid conversation so I turned my body slightly and changed while discussing my transformation from a drowning chicken to a slow and steady oar.
She explained how she feels happier when she swims everyday. Swimming provides health and a sensible mind. Because I am still learning how to perfect my stroke, she asked if I'd heard of the swim club that meets at another recreation center in our town, 3 days a week. They have a coach and each day they practice new drills, helping their cardio vascular and muscle strength. While I was fully dressed by this time, she was still standing there topless offering me a formal invitation.
I won't lie, I'm intrigued. Something about this exposed conversation entertained me. I've been surrounded by runners for so long, ones who clear their noses in public and pee on the side of the road, I've learn to accept a once unacceptable list of rules in order to belong. Now that I'm venturing into new lanes it would be nice to meet more people with similar interests. I could work on my form and learn more about the swimmer's culture. I must look enough of the part to warrant the invitation. Although, nude conversations are a stretch, even for a snot-rocketing runner.
~Roadburner
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Plastic Surgery Barbie
So get this, my insurance company is refusing to pay for my arthroscopic hip surgery because they labeled it "plastic surgery." Apparently, when a surgeon grinds down a significant patch of bone on your body they can get away with this classification, no matter where that patch is located. I guess I now have the luscious curves that would render any female instantly jealous. Take that Barbie.
It doesn't matter that they openly paid for 6 months of physical therapy, MRIs, X-Rays, drugs (and lots of them), anesthesia, braces, post operative machinery, cooling units, nurses, an overnight hospital stay... Oh, the list goes on. They paid for the screws in my hip, but not the drill to apply them. Yup, that makes perfect sense.
I keep thinking of the Incredibles. You know that scene when Mr. Incredible is having his backside handed to him because he isn't rejecting enough legitimate claims? Cheers to you Mr. Incredible and your short little maniacal boss. We are changing the world one claim at a time.
Obviously, I'm not fighting the notion that my operation was plastic surgery. Alternatively, I'm sending them multiple before and after pictures of my lovely hips, to thank them for my new status upgrade. I am sure they will love the trendy scars that grace the front of my leg. They are seductive. I can see this sort of thing totally taking off throughout Europe. The nice bump of scar tissue that I massage every night only adds to my provocative new curves, a mouth-watering appeal for every young man who gawks at my hips, wide-eyed at the rec-center pool.
In fact, I'm thoroughly flattered they think I finally personify the "perfect female." It's definitely time to give the other side a whirl. I wouldn't want this hippy beauty to be asymmetrical...
~Roadburner
It doesn't matter that they openly paid for 6 months of physical therapy, MRIs, X-Rays, drugs (and lots of them), anesthesia, braces, post operative machinery, cooling units, nurses, an overnight hospital stay... Oh, the list goes on. They paid for the screws in my hip, but not the drill to apply them. Yup, that makes perfect sense.
I keep thinking of the Incredibles. You know that scene when Mr. Incredible is having his backside handed to him because he isn't rejecting enough legitimate claims? Cheers to you Mr. Incredible and your short little maniacal boss. We are changing the world one claim at a time.
Obviously, I'm not fighting the notion that my operation was plastic surgery. Alternatively, I'm sending them multiple before and after pictures of my lovely hips, to thank them for my new status upgrade. I am sure they will love the trendy scars that grace the front of my leg. They are seductive. I can see this sort of thing totally taking off throughout Europe. The nice bump of scar tissue that I massage every night only adds to my provocative new curves, a mouth-watering appeal for every young man who gawks at my hips, wide-eyed at the rec-center pool.
In fact, I'm thoroughly flattered they think I finally personify the "perfect female." It's definitely time to give the other side a whirl. I wouldn't want this hippy beauty to be asymmetrical...
~Roadburner
Monday, November 17, 2014
Shards Full of Irony
I patiently awaited my 12 week post operative appointment like a pregnant woman longing for her 20 week ultrasound. I needed the all clear. Not only did I need to see the giant chunk they'd carved out of my femur was healing, but I wanted to be told that I could start safely weight training and increasing my fitness level again. If weight training went well, it would be the precursor for running.
My femur still looks like a gremlin took a jagged bite out of an apple. But my surgeon reassured me that was normal and things were healing beautifully. He pulled up the before and after x-rays to let me see for the first time exactly what he'd done. "See how your bone pre-surgery looks like an electricity pole?"
"Um, sure. It's definitely sturdy."
"Yeah, that's bad. Your bone around the socket should look like an hour glass. So if you compare the before and after you can see how much bone I took from you." He laughed. "You are definitely a few ounces lighter!"
My post operative x-ray looks like Barbie's hips. She's got the curves...
While things are healing well, I've been completely miserable for the last 3 weeks. Both hips ache and burn. At night when I sleep, they throb incessantly with a persistent piercing pain. I've complained weekly to my physical therapist, asking what I am doing wrong and what I can do to fix it? But nothing helps. I've pulled way back on physical activity, but things remain inflamed. While rotating the joint around the socket, my surgeon was shocked by the level of irritation. I cringed as he circled my knee around and around, measuring my mobility.
As a comparison, he checked the other leg. When he rotated my knee inwards I yelped. Somehow, my left hip joint deteriorated faster than my right. For about a month now, driving and sitting have become increasingly difficult. While my right hip can finally handle a 45 minute drive up the mountains to visit the in-laws, my left side didn't want to risk being left out of the burden. Without knowing it, I've been pampering my left leg, altering my stride as I walk to handle the impact on two broken hip joints.
Repairing muscles applies a lot of pressure to the sockets. Just like physical therapy made my right hip worse, the act of healing my right hip post operation, is killing my left. I knew this could happen but the reality of it is inconceivable. "Once I hit the 12 week mark I will be halfway. It will be smooth sailing from there." I am not halfway anymore. I am less than a quarter of the way to full recovery.
The doctor took an x-ray of my left hip. It's the same giant pole, marked with a nice peppering of bone material that's been scraped clear of the joint. The shards sit near the socket, evidence of bone on bone abrasion. "I'm really sorry, Jen. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear today, but I can't allow you to run, or do anything until we fix your left hip. This is a congenital defect and I warned you, your chances were quite high that both legs would need to be operated on, we just didn't predict it would be this soon. Your condition is significant. Just 1mm of extra bone can make people miserable, yours is quadruple that."
He put me on a large dose of anti-inflammatory drugs to try and settle things down on both sides for the next two weeks. The next step will be to get an Arthrogram MRI on my left hip to see what the damage looks like on a tissue level. Because I love 7 inch needles, I am really looking forward to it... He told me not to worry too much about things yet. I don't have to schedule it now, but the sooner I do, the sooner I can get back to a normal life. "Take some time to think about it. This is major surgery. What I did to you was just short of a hip replacement. I know this wasn't easy on your kids, and you've worked really hard. I want to you be active again and pain free. Once a labrum flares up, sadly there's not much we can do except surgery to permanently fix the bony bumps. Because your left hip is weak, it will affect how well your right one heals."
Obviously, if I rehabilitated my right hip and finally earned the spot at a starting line, I would be crushed if I had to pull out because my left hip failed. Honestly, I'm relieved it's rearing it's ugly femoral head now. Had I run a race and consequently needed surgery on the left hip afterwards, I would question my sanity of trying to ever run again. This proves it is genetics, not running, that's caused it.
I'll get back out there, it's going to be longer than I expected. But when I hit the trails again, for any distance, the victory will be sweet.
~Roadburner
My femur still looks like a gremlin took a jagged bite out of an apple. But my surgeon reassured me that was normal and things were healing beautifully. He pulled up the before and after x-rays to let me see for the first time exactly what he'd done. "See how your bone pre-surgery looks like an electricity pole?"
"Um, sure. It's definitely sturdy."
"Yeah, that's bad. Your bone around the socket should look like an hour glass. So if you compare the before and after you can see how much bone I took from you." He laughed. "You are definitely a few ounces lighter!"
My post operative x-ray looks like Barbie's hips. She's got the curves...
While things are healing well, I've been completely miserable for the last 3 weeks. Both hips ache and burn. At night when I sleep, they throb incessantly with a persistent piercing pain. I've complained weekly to my physical therapist, asking what I am doing wrong and what I can do to fix it? But nothing helps. I've pulled way back on physical activity, but things remain inflamed. While rotating the joint around the socket, my surgeon was shocked by the level of irritation. I cringed as he circled my knee around and around, measuring my mobility.
As a comparison, he checked the other leg. When he rotated my knee inwards I yelped. Somehow, my left hip joint deteriorated faster than my right. For about a month now, driving and sitting have become increasingly difficult. While my right hip can finally handle a 45 minute drive up the mountains to visit the in-laws, my left side didn't want to risk being left out of the burden. Without knowing it, I've been pampering my left leg, altering my stride as I walk to handle the impact on two broken hip joints.
Repairing muscles applies a lot of pressure to the sockets. Just like physical therapy made my right hip worse, the act of healing my right hip post operation, is killing my left. I knew this could happen but the reality of it is inconceivable. "Once I hit the 12 week mark I will be halfway. It will be smooth sailing from there." I am not halfway anymore. I am less than a quarter of the way to full recovery.
The doctor took an x-ray of my left hip. It's the same giant pole, marked with a nice peppering of bone material that's been scraped clear of the joint. The shards sit near the socket, evidence of bone on bone abrasion. "I'm really sorry, Jen. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear today, but I can't allow you to run, or do anything until we fix your left hip. This is a congenital defect and I warned you, your chances were quite high that both legs would need to be operated on, we just didn't predict it would be this soon. Your condition is significant. Just 1mm of extra bone can make people miserable, yours is quadruple that."
He put me on a large dose of anti-inflammatory drugs to try and settle things down on both sides for the next two weeks. The next step will be to get an Arthrogram MRI on my left hip to see what the damage looks like on a tissue level. Because I love 7 inch needles, I am really looking forward to it... He told me not to worry too much about things yet. I don't have to schedule it now, but the sooner I do, the sooner I can get back to a normal life. "Take some time to think about it. This is major surgery. What I did to you was just short of a hip replacement. I know this wasn't easy on your kids, and you've worked really hard. I want to you be active again and pain free. Once a labrum flares up, sadly there's not much we can do except surgery to permanently fix the bony bumps. Because your left hip is weak, it will affect how well your right one heals."
Obviously, if I rehabilitated my right hip and finally earned the spot at a starting line, I would be crushed if I had to pull out because my left hip failed. Honestly, I'm relieved it's rearing it's ugly femoral head now. Had I run a race and consequently needed surgery on the left hip afterwards, I would question my sanity of trying to ever run again. This proves it is genetics, not running, that's caused it.
I'll get back out there, it's going to be longer than I expected. But when I hit the trails again, for any distance, the victory will be sweet.
~Roadburner
Monday, November 3, 2014
Runner's Purgatory
Having an exercise addiction sucks. The suck ratio multiplies exponentially when injured. Most normal people would embrace the time off the hamster wheel and proudly show off the pounds gained while they continue to squeeze into their now useless Lulumon pants. (I've gained 6 pounds by the way.) But everywhere I look, I am assaulted with beautiful images of happy people frolicking through the gorgeous countryside. Why is Fall so much more beautiful this year than ever before? Because I can't run. That's why. It taunts me as I gaze longingly from the window of my recreation center as I hammer aimlessly at the cumbersome pedals of my elliptical.
Ellipticals are purgatory. They are the closest thing to mimicking what running actually looks and feels like without applying the real pressure to your joints. I lunge my foot downwards and around in aimless circles pretending I am somewhere else. Anywhere else but here, listening to the Treadmill Kicker snorting away, throwing his sweat all over my elbow. Somehow he manages to kick the front cover of the belt drive every time he takes a step. How does he not notice that? It jolts him awkwardly and punches everyone's ears from across the room. I've starred at him at least 10 times and I've been here exactly 3 minutes, 8 calories.
I can't ignore the impulse. I need to compete, to feel the blood pulsing through my brain, sweat seeping from my dry pores. I pick an easy target. Sorry lady, you might be 85, but that level 2 resistance won't hold up today. You are going to loose. Elliptical victory is mine.
Somehow the flat screen positioned in front of my machine is stuck on cartoons. I try not to watch. How ridiculous, a 30-year-old injured woman finding delight in the Sprout Network, but I can't look away. Chica's singing and dancing are so flamboyant, my iPod Shuffle easily fills in the gaps. My elderly competitor enjoys the ease of a woman's cooking magazine. Highlighter in hand, she is armed to multitask, preparing for a Fit-Family Thanksgiving. How does she do that? I can't read when I bounce. Am I bouncing too much? Maybe that is my problem. No, that's not my problem. That is Treadmill Kicker's problem. He ricochets, clashing violently with the machine. At some point he will over-kick and things will deteriorate. Chica pulls me back. Oh, isn't that cute? She is wearing a squirrel costume! A chicken pretending to be a squirrel, nope this will never get old.
To my right are huge plate glass windows, 50 feet high and over 40 feet wide. Straight ahead are men pumping iron admiring their pulsing flesh. I can see myself in the mirror from afar but I look away. I never see myself when I run outside, unless I steal a glance in the windows of a parked car or store front. That's okay though, everyone does that. I am only checking my form... I try to pretend to be somewhere else, somewhere far away from the new guy that took residence on the rowing machine and thinks perpetual grunting creates power. I direct my attention back towards the windows. The wind rustles the remaining leaves on the trees and I wish I had wind in my hair instead of a fan that is never on.
Thirty minutes later my competitor put up a good fight. She circled 8 recipes, burned 127 calories and lasted 20 minutes. I on the other hand, put in the extra ten minutes, burned 311 calories, and watched Chica transform from a squirrel to a mountain lion.
~Roadburner
Ellipticals are purgatory. They are the closest thing to mimicking what running actually looks and feels like without applying the real pressure to your joints. I lunge my foot downwards and around in aimless circles pretending I am somewhere else. Anywhere else but here, listening to the Treadmill Kicker snorting away, throwing his sweat all over my elbow. Somehow he manages to kick the front cover of the belt drive every time he takes a step. How does he not notice that? It jolts him awkwardly and punches everyone's ears from across the room. I've starred at him at least 10 times and I've been here exactly 3 minutes, 8 calories.
I can't ignore the impulse. I need to compete, to feel the blood pulsing through my brain, sweat seeping from my dry pores. I pick an easy target. Sorry lady, you might be 85, but that level 2 resistance won't hold up today. You are going to loose. Elliptical victory is mine.
Somehow the flat screen positioned in front of my machine is stuck on cartoons. I try not to watch. How ridiculous, a 30-year-old injured woman finding delight in the Sprout Network, but I can't look away. Chica's singing and dancing are so flamboyant, my iPod Shuffle easily fills in the gaps. My elderly competitor enjoys the ease of a woman's cooking magazine. Highlighter in hand, she is armed to multitask, preparing for a Fit-Family Thanksgiving. How does she do that? I can't read when I bounce. Am I bouncing too much? Maybe that is my problem. No, that's not my problem. That is Treadmill Kicker's problem. He ricochets, clashing violently with the machine. At some point he will over-kick and things will deteriorate. Chica pulls me back. Oh, isn't that cute? She is wearing a squirrel costume! A chicken pretending to be a squirrel, nope this will never get old.
 |
| Click here if you want to dress Chica... |
Thirty minutes later my competitor put up a good fight. She circled 8 recipes, burned 127 calories and lasted 20 minutes. I on the other hand, put in the extra ten minutes, burned 311 calories, and watched Chica transform from a squirrel to a mountain lion.
~Roadburner
Some goals take more humility
Ten weeks ago my sights were set on Halloween. I kept telling myself that by Halloween I should be able to walk with a minimal limp and no crutches for at least a mile at a time. If I could get to that point, things would start feeling more like normal and my hip surgery would be a long removed memory. While pain and a revolving limp are pretty familiar, I surpassed my goal. I've been walking my boys to and from school, a quarter mile each way, for a month now. Those obnoxious crutches found a home in my basement and most strangers would have no idea I've ever had major surgery.
I've always been goal driven. When I wanted something I would run out and take it, work my butt off and grab the opportunity. I graduated college summa cum laude with a double major in three years. Yeah it took a lot of late nights and hard work, I didn't play as much as many, but I saw the destination and I got there. While satisfied, I always knew I would graduate. It was my path. There weren't bumps along the way, I didn't have to practice any form of humility. It was a diploma of pure grit.
This time I am combining hard work and humility. I have permanent loss of feeling covering a large chunk of my hip. When I reach my hand into the right pocket of my jeans, I can't feel it. There's no sensitivity to touch over a 5 inch square patch. The two scars are a window into my healing. When they are red and inflamed, my joint is red and inflamed. I've learned to find equilibrium in my workouts. Push too hard and I can't walk for two days without a strong limp and major piercing pain. Don't push hard enough and the entire joint seizes up in a restricting tightness that makes it equally as hard to function. I'm trying to learn how to test that balance with muscles that grow daily.
During hard training runs and races that felt like they would never end I always used to count my steps. It felt easier as a direct distraction than any simple words. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. Shoot, I employed this simple method while in full labor racing down Colfax Avenue on the way to St. Joesph Hospital, 45 minutes from our home. I was fully dilated and cars kept pulling up next to us at each light pointing at me and laughing. I was breathing hard and ready to tear their feeble heads off. I stared intently at the clock on the dashboard. 1:45. 1:45. 1:46. 1-4-6. 1-4-6. 1-4-7. Time is moving. I am almost there.
I started my rehabilitation on a bike. 10 minutes everyday for 2 weeks. No resistance, but very painful. Patience. Week three I added 5 minutes. I looked around at all the people sweating. I was jealous. Patience. Within a couple weeks I added resistance to the spin bike and very slowly worked my way up to 45 minutes. Patience. My physical therapist told me to start using the elliptical, but watch carefully for soreness. I only lasted 5 minutes the first time. My femur danced garishly around the socket with every pull. I cursed and jumped off. After waiting two more weeks I attempted it again, cautiously. I've built up to 30 minutes on the elliptical with resistance, but I still can't handle more than 45 minutes of cardio at one time. Patience. Living in the moment is easier than always looking forward. I find taking smaller bites out of a larger goal is much more satisfying than focusing on what isn't yet possible.
Strength work is a part of my daily routine. I ride the bike for 45 minutes and jump off for clam shells, bridges, ball crunches, free weights, planks, push ups, lunges, etc... I've learned not to do the same exercises everyday. Each week I ride the bike, swim, and use the elliptical. My muscles are becoming much more balanced and I feel my strength growing daily. My legs, glutes, arms, and lower back are all stronger now post surgery. That is an honest victory. I can't run yet. That probably won't happen for another couple months at best, but when I hit the trails again I will be steadfast.
~Roadburner
 |
| My youngest son was a "fierce spider." My oldest, Captain America. |
This time I am combining hard work and humility. I have permanent loss of feeling covering a large chunk of my hip. When I reach my hand into the right pocket of my jeans, I can't feel it. There's no sensitivity to touch over a 5 inch square patch. The two scars are a window into my healing. When they are red and inflamed, my joint is red and inflamed. I've learned to find equilibrium in my workouts. Push too hard and I can't walk for two days without a strong limp and major piercing pain. Don't push hard enough and the entire joint seizes up in a restricting tightness that makes it equally as hard to function. I'm trying to learn how to test that balance with muscles that grow daily.
During hard training runs and races that felt like they would never end I always used to count my steps. It felt easier as a direct distraction than any simple words. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. Shoot, I employed this simple method while in full labor racing down Colfax Avenue on the way to St. Joesph Hospital, 45 minutes from our home. I was fully dilated and cars kept pulling up next to us at each light pointing at me and laughing. I was breathing hard and ready to tear their feeble heads off. I stared intently at the clock on the dashboard. 1:45. 1:45. 1:46. 1-4-6. 1-4-6. 1-4-7. Time is moving. I am almost there.
I started my rehabilitation on a bike. 10 minutes everyday for 2 weeks. No resistance, but very painful. Patience. Week three I added 5 minutes. I looked around at all the people sweating. I was jealous. Patience. Within a couple weeks I added resistance to the spin bike and very slowly worked my way up to 45 minutes. Patience. My physical therapist told me to start using the elliptical, but watch carefully for soreness. I only lasted 5 minutes the first time. My femur danced garishly around the socket with every pull. I cursed and jumped off. After waiting two more weeks I attempted it again, cautiously. I've built up to 30 minutes on the elliptical with resistance, but I still can't handle more than 45 minutes of cardio at one time. Patience. Living in the moment is easier than always looking forward. I find taking smaller bites out of a larger goal is much more satisfying than focusing on what isn't yet possible.
Strength work is a part of my daily routine. I ride the bike for 45 minutes and jump off for clam shells, bridges, ball crunches, free weights, planks, push ups, lunges, etc... I've learned not to do the same exercises everyday. Each week I ride the bike, swim, and use the elliptical. My muscles are becoming much more balanced and I feel my strength growing daily. My legs, glutes, arms, and lower back are all stronger now post surgery. That is an honest victory. I can't run yet. That probably won't happen for another couple months at best, but when I hit the trails again I will be steadfast.
~Roadburner
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