I'm going to come clean. Yesterday's post was a bunch of BS. While I might have sounded relatively calm and in control, I'm not right now.
Long story short, after a few big glasses of pre-bedtime water Thursday to ward off post-swimming hunger, I needed two middle-of-the-night bathroom trips. The first time I got up, I was surprised that I couldn't put full weight on my left knee. In fact, I nearly bit the carpet because I didn't expect it ... everything was A-OK when I went to bed. How odd, I thought. But let's face it, it was the middle of the night, so I chose to not worry. When it happened again a couple of hours later, I had a bona fide panic attack in the dark.
I walked around a little just to see what the hell was going on and literally couldn't do it. I climbed into bed and found I couldn't straighten my leg out the whole way. Wide awake and staring at the ceiling, I knew I'd have to get the crutches out for work on Friday. But how was I going to do that without screwing with my right hip more? That freaking thing can't take all the weight without further stressing it, delaying recovery, etc., etc., and etc.
It was a fitful, restless, toss and turn worry-fest until morning.
It was a fitful, restless, toss and turn worry-fest until morning.
But when I woke up and gingerly placed my feet on the floor, everything was ... fine. Praise Jesus! I think we had a miracle! Or, maybe I dreamed the whole thing.
Fast forward to Saturday morning. The plan was to ride 20+ miles. With about 3 miles in, my damn left knee starts giving out on the uphill pushes. It's popping. And painful. I get off the bike, walk around, stretch, hop a bit, trying to send what I now think is a loose piece of cartilage back into place.
This has never happened to me before, but there's something poetic-in-a-Murphy's-Law-kind-of-way about it happening now.
This has never happened to me before, but there's something poetic-in-a-Murphy's-Law-kind-of-way about it happening now.
Jump back on the bike, go another mile and it's back. Start messing with the placement of my foot on the pedal, the height of my saddle, looking for something that will change the pangs cursing through the joint. I fight with it for another 10 miles. And with every one, I get more and more frustrated. More and more panicked. More and more terrified.
"(Expletive!)," I shout at the front tire. "Seriously?" I ask, looking directly at my left knee. "Now? You're going to give out now?" And my mind is racing. I'm already in surgery. And probably a whole body cast. After several amputations, no doubt.
I ball up my right fist and punch my left knee as it comes around the top of the pedal. "Dammit!"
And then I cry. A big, ol' baby blubbering cry.
My logical thinking from yesterday is out the door and I'm all emotion. I know my skinnier life is OVER. I hate the bike. I hate the pool. I hate myself for being such a crybaby. I hate that I obviously haven't learned anything. I hate wanting to quit. I hate living in fear that tomorrow I'm going to screw this up ... gain a few more pounds and then a few more ... and not be able to come back.
The tears roll.
The tears roll.
Guess what a pile of frustration, panic, swearing, fear and crying gets you?
It doesn't fix your knee. But it does give you snot. Which brings a lovely and ladylike farmer blow as I roll down a picturesque country road, puffy eyes and red blotchy face.
I can only hope no one was watching.
I'm scared. I'm telling you because I imagine you have days when you're afraid of whatever is holding you back, too. Or, whatever you think MIGHT hold you back.
I'm scared. I'm telling you because I imagine you have days when you're afraid of whatever is holding you back, too. Or, whatever you think MIGHT hold you back.
And if it helps, know that you're not alone.
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