In my last blog, I was busy coming to terms with the latest injury in a long line of broken stuff and illnesses. Impressively for me, I was cautiously optimistic that I’d make a fast recovery and that all would be well in no time.
(Lets breeeeeze past the tears and tantrums. Quickly, now.)
After all, I am a fully qualified drama queen (shocker) so I always make things out to be worse in my head than they actually are…. right?
Well….. The foot got worse. Like….. a LOT worse. Like….. so bad I googled my arse off and learnt all about the anatomy of the foot. Panic-stricken, I called the very next best thing to a doctor: my mammy.
Amongst all her talents is a qualification (and about 25 years experience) in reflexology and the weirdo KNOWS feet. Plus she knows MY feet (unfortunately for her). So that weekend, I gingerly placed my gammy, swollen foot on their beautiful Teak dining table and demanded she look at it.
After much prodding, she said the scariest thing a runner with a looming marathon can hear: “it feels broken. It feels like a fracture to your 5th metatarsal”
Oh. Dear. God. Sound the fucking alarms. Alert the authorities. There is gonna be a meltdown.
It’s ok. It’s OK because she’s JUST being cautious. I’m seeing my lovely doctor tomorrow. He’ll sort it out. He’ll take one look and tell me it’s JUST a sprain.
The doctor delivered the following grave sentence with an expression on his face that said “please don’t cry”:
“Hmmm. Your mum might actually be right. We’ll get you straight up to PRI for an X Ray”
Off I hobbled. And attempted to bribe the radiologist for information. I was given the tiny glimmer of hope that she couldn’t see a break. FINGERS (but not toes, obvs) CROSSED.
4 days later and my doctor calls me to advise that it’s NOT a break but there is a build up calcium and possibly a small tear to the Peroneal brevis and/or longus. Rest for now but all clear to weight-bear and train if it’s not painful.
By this point I had already booked in to see Alistair Dall at Sports Podiatry Scotland for an assessment.
Alistair was FANTASTIC. One Thorough assessment and a diagnosis of Cuboid Syndrome later, I was sent off with a doorstop sized orthotic in my trainer and an action plan. Positivity returned. And I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that I actually dislodged a bone. In my foot. While swimming.
You would think that would be my run of bad luck finished, yes?
Let’s skip another week and I manage to tweak my lower back. (If I rolled my eyes any harder they’d get stuck in my head.) Of course, by this point my I AM NOT GETTING SICK LOOK AT ALL THESE VITAMINS I AM EATING approach to life meant I’d developed a bark. Fast forward three weeks to present and I am STILL COUGHING and it sucks. I am phlegmy. It is disgusting. An actual herd of elephants have made a comfy nest on my sternum and my colleagues are ready to kill me dead. Of course, the worst part is I have THE ACTUAL FUCKING LONDON MARATHON ON APRIL 23RD AND I HAVE RUN ABOUT 8 MILES SINCE DECEMBER.
Honestly. You couldn’t make this shit up.
It seems I am destined to never get my secretly-hoped-for time.
I mean I could defer…. but I have worked so hard for this. Realistically I have until expo to defer so I could just… y’know…. wing it until then. At least I’m rested right now….. VERY FECKING RESTED.
The plan is currently to wrap myself in bubble wrap soaked in Dettol and hope for the best.