It all started with the hooker heels.
My husband started blaming himself, but he shouldn’t have. Yes, he was the one who purchased the 5-inch black bootie heels for me last Christmas, but it was I who fell in love with them. And wore them all Sunday morning while carrying a 30-pound toddler much of the time on my hip. And then I was the one who ran 11 miles, up hills and down hills, in preparation for my half marathon the following Sunday.
I should have rested that Tuesday. I should have. But my girls and I were going to run just three miles, and I could do three miles. My foot hurt a little, but it wasn’t bad.
By mile 1, I should have turned back. The pain on the left side of my left foot was excruciating. But instead, I let pride take over, and I finished that run.
And I hobbled for two days.
I asked y’all for assistance on the Sisterhood’s Facebook page. I was less than a week out from a half marathon. Granted, this was supposed to be my taper week (where I run four miles, three miles, and then two miles before the race instead of five miles, three miles, and five miles), but should I completely neglect my training in hopes of healing by Sunday? Which would be better – rest or training?
The overwhelming consensus (that is, EVERYBODY) said to rest. I contacted a physical therapist friend of mine who told me to rest.
So I rested. And the pain – it wasn’t going away, but it wasn’t anything that I couldn’t handle.
By Friday, I was talking about running my half marathon on Sunday. Yes, my foot hurt, but it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t intolerable. I could do it, right? Because runners are tough. Runners are resilient.
And this runner is often an idiot.
To be fair, I did not run my half marathon. I ran a “test run” Saturday – just a mile on the treadmill – and I realized then that I could not run 13 miles. As much as I wanted to see my daughter, my husband and my friends waiting for me at the finish line, I couldn’t risk permanent injury.
The Monday after my half marathon came and went without me, I went to the doctor. I had rested. I had iced. I had taken enough ibuprofen to heal a horse. But nothing was working.
The doctor x-rayed my foot, and as I waited for the results, I thought about what a ridiculous injury this was (I generally just say it is a “running injury” and leave it at that) and wondered how long I would be unable to run. Because I had gone a week without running already, and I was starting to go stir crazy.
The doctor returned to my room after the x-ray, and I prepared myself for him to say, “Just keep resting it. You may need to rest for two weeks.” And then I would mentally scream out in frustration over not being able to run for two weeks.
But he didn’t say that. “I want you to come look at this,” he said.
That’s never good. I repeat, that’s NEVER good. So I tentatively (and fairly painfully) followed him into the x-ray room.
“See this spot?” he asked, showing me a darkened portion on my bone. “This may be s a stress fracture. I’m going to send this off for a second opinion, but if it’s a stress fracture, we’ll need to put your foot in a boot for four weeks.”
Four weeks.
FOUR WEEKS.
FOUR WEEKS!??!!
I nearly burst into tears right then and there.
Thankfully, I had a CT scan completed and found out I had a sprain. A foot sprain. I didn’t even know you could get a foot sprain!
I was as mopey as one could be. The doctor said rest until I could hop on my foot without hurting, but he wasn’t sure how long that would take. “Rest,” he insisted. “Just ice it and rest it.”
Because of my injury, I missed a conference to Vegas because there was no way I was going to be able to walk in the airport with my bags in my state. “Rest,” everyone said. “Just take some time and rest.”
I cried. I whined about it. I thought about all the unfairness of life and all my first-world problems. It was quite the pity party.
Mind you, the time between my half marathon, the x-ray and the CT scan was from Sunday to Wednesday. Sure, I had been in injury-mode the week before, but truth be told, I hadn’t been off from running that long.
Then, that Wednesday afternoon, something just clicked. I can’t explain it other than it being a God thing.
So I hobbled to pick up my daughter from her Mother’s Day Out program and did something that I had not even conceived that morning.
I took a pregnancy test.
It was positive.
I’m going to have another baby.
**For clarification, we did several blood tests the following days, and everything points to us having a healthy and growing little baby, due July 21.**