My sports med follow-up appointment yielded the desired result:
A lovely cortisone injection!
Well, I think I obtained three separate pokes. ("Oh my," doc says as she's poking around on my hip. "Those tendons are REALLY tight!" No shit, Sherlock.) I walked out of there at 10:30 a.m. on Cloud No. Nine!
She told me to lay low tonight. Don't run for a few days. Walk a little, run a little, get back up to speed slowly. Swim all I want. Bike all I want. (Yippee. Bleah.)
So all day I waited for the magic to happen. For the pain to instantly disappear. For everything to feel good as new in the blink of an eye.
Still hasn't happened. In fact, right now my hip hurts more than it did before the shot. (Laugh all you want. It's funny. Freaking hysterical.) I'm hoping that it's just the injection site that's sore from the needle. And that tomorrow I'll spring out of bed a new woman with slippery, slide-y tendons and teeny, tiny bursa.
But I'm not holding my breath. If there's a way for this to not work, I'll find it.
(And no offense to those of you that read this who are connected to the medical industry. But this is why I hate going to the doctor. I always end up feeling like I'm whining and a total wuss. I don't think I am. I mean, I hardly complained at all before my hysterectomy and the disaster they found inside me once they got there made everyone wonder how the hell I hadn't complained more earlier, but ...)
On the bright side, my once high-range-of-normal, teetering-on-we-need-to-keep-an-eye-on-this blood pressure clocked in at a Smurfy 106/60. Hot damn.
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