Listen to Your Gut

Thursday morning I wanted to run. I was "scheduled" to run. But I knew Wednesday had been miserable and my knee kept me awake most of Wednesday night, so walking was the more likely workout.

I hit the treadmill and tried a slow pace to warm up. After about a tenth of a mile, I could tell that even walking would not be possible. So I got mad, got off the belt and half-heartedly lifted a few weights. Behind the 8-ball before I leave for work.

Therefore, it seemed outright mandatory that I come home and do Jillian. Jim came downstairs with me to scope out the Week 2 workout. And there we were, on the last 2-minute cardio rotation of the whole workout (only a 1-minute abs and the cool down to go) when we both heard this:

"POP!"

Followed by this:

"GRUMPHKLUMSMACKCRASH" (That's what I think I sound like falling to the floor) And then this, "Aaaaaoooowwwwhhhhhahahoowhososowowowofuckfuckfuckbawwawawawaaw."

And then it's just me on the floor gasping and crying for a while as Jim keeps repeating, "Breathe. Relax. What do you want me to do? Breathe. Relax. What do you want me to do?"

I eventually scoot up the stairs (on my ass, much like the Dells oh so long ago), Jim digs out the crutches from the last go-round (opposite knee this time) and off we go to Urgent Care.

As soon as they heard I had an appointment on Tuesday to drain a cyst, they stopped listening, wrote me a prescription and sent me home with a brace. "Talk to sports med."

I'm still unable to bend it or put any weight on it.

Just as I knew I shouldn't have tried to do the high knees cardio with Jillian, I know this isn't all a cyst.

Now I have to get someone else to believe me. I'm frustrated that it feels like I'm not being heard and that no one appears to be too worried about it. This is why I don't like going to the doctor. I don't think I'm a frequent complainer. I don't think I exaggerate. But I know when something isn't right and this isn't right.

Did I mention I'm pissed off?