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The Healing Power of Pancakes

Well, bad news, my little chickadees.

Both of you know that I have been training for about two and a half months for a half marathon.  Although I'm not new to running, this is my first half.  Naturally, I have been hyped up ever since I officially registered for the pre-race spaghetti dinner.  (I mean really, that's why we do it.  Right?)  Anyhow, during my training time, I have seen myself progress to levels of speed and stamina that I never thought I could attain.  This all culminated in my final (and most recent) distance run last week.

On Friday morning, my training guide had me scheduled to run 13 miles. Prior to that, I had run 12, so it wasn't as though I made a sudden leap in effort; I had been building up to this.  As I wrapped up the final mile and climbed the stairs to my apartment, I felt a sense of relief.  The hard part was behind me; only a few taper runs and the race lay ahead.  I looked down at my watch and was ecstatic with my training time, knowing that I could shave it down a little more still on race day.  *Sigh*  What relief!

As I went about eating myself silly that day (I had burned nigh 2,000 calories in addition to my regular quota), I didn't give my run much more thought...until later that evening, when we went to visit my granny for her birthday.

At the end of the evening, as Habibi and I strolled from her place to our car, I felt a sharp pain on the outer edge of my left foot.  Now, imagine this spot being the "nucleus."  From this "nucleus" radiated fingers of pain, wrapping the sole of my foot, ankle and lower left leg in the same sharp sensation.  Uh-oh.  Still, I was no stranger to aches and pains and I had endured much worse.  So we went to bed that night without so much as a second thought.

Saturday morning, I woke up with the same pain in my foot/ankle.  Even so, this stuff doesn't disappear overnight.  Ain't no thang!  Besides, Saturday is my rest day, so there was no real reason to worry.

On Sunday morning, I attempted a 2.5 mile run.  After about 2ish miles, I had to humble myself before the other pedestrians and make the long, embarrassing "runner's walk of shame" home.

It sucked.

I started doing as much research as I could, gathering information from fitness publications and runner's forums and putting together the pieces to form my self-diagnosis.  I finally landed on peroneal tendonitis - something I had never heard of in my life.

That evening, I called my dad -a family practitioner- who walked me through a couple of tests over the phone.  It didn't sound like a stress fracture but, sight unseen, it was impossible to determine for sure.  Fortunately, my dad kicks ass and had the hookup; he got me in to see another FP who specializes in sports medicine the following morning.

As I panicked over the potential of having a stress fracture, it suddenly dawned on me that such an injury might come as a relief.  Of course, I wouldn't have an injury at all in the ideal situation, but at least this way, I'd know for sure that I couldn't run the race.  With tendonitis, there would be the possibility of running, but of that I could not be certain until after the gun went off.  At least with a bone issue, I could have a week to come to terms with the fact that all of my hard work was for nothing.  With tendons, well it's a crap shoot.

So, the verdict is thus:  peroneal tendonitis/tendon strain.  

Good news:  Not a stress fracture.  Also, I might have a future career in spot on self-diagnostics.

Bad news:  It hurts.  I cannot run.  I still don't know if I'll be able to participate on Sunday.  If I can, I will not likely achieve my ideal time.

I realize that I wouldn't be able to improve my pace or stamina between now and race day anyway, but I was really looking forward to tapering.  Truthfully, I was psyched about it.  Now, instead of a proper taper, I'm swimming.  And grumbling.  And biking.  And whining.  And taking 45 minutes to dust my tiny apartment because I'm gimping.  And wondering if I'll be able to participate in anything beyond carb-a-loading.

Awesome.  Now I'm hungry, but I can't eat anything because I'll get fat since all I do is sit on my couch and ice my stupid foot and watch Arrested Development and wish for pancakes and cookies and sympathy and a functioning foot and ice cream but I can't have it because it will make me farty and bloated and...

...WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!

Even as I write this post, my emotions are running a muck.  (Can't you tell?)  I cannot decide if this is a tough lesson in humility and trusting God's will, or if I should just be pissed because I might have pushed myself too hard somewhere along the line.  I have a great network of supportive family and friends -for which I am truly grateful- but I'm still a grouch.  I even -unintentionally- snarled at a friend who just set her new personal best for a 5K.  (Fortunately, she is much more gracious than I, and called me promptly to commiserate and listen to me bitch even more.  She is either a saint or a masochist, which is why she is my friend.  I love her face.)

Since I've just been rambling, I think I'll continue.  You have my permission to stop reading (if you've made it this far, that is).

The whole time I've been training, I've thought, You know what would suck?  Injuring myself right before the race!  Well, irony is a fickle thing, because guess what!!!!  My foot still hurts!

Seriously, though.  You need to calm down.  Look at how riled up you're making me.

The other day, I found an article on the website for Runner's World that talked about the grieving process for injured runners.  (Click here to read it.)  How true it was!  Up until this point, I felt trivial for sporadic sob fests on my kitchen floor (shut up!), but it was so nice to find that (a) I'm not the only one and (b) even though everyone says this should put things in perspective, it really is a big deal.

Nevertheless, no matter how much I try and justify my bitterness, it still pales in comparison to all of eternity.  For instance...

Last night after swimming laps, I decided to try the steam room at our gym.  I figured if I'm forced to do old people things like swim at the gym, I might as well do other old people stuff too:  sit in a steam room like an old stalwart.  (This is not to discredit hard core swimmers.  It really was nice, but I believe Habibi and I were the only people there under 65.)  Hell, maybe I'll get aqua shoes and apply for an AARP card!  Anyway, after nearly choking to death on steam (maybe I'm not ready yet for the life of an ol' bulldog...), I asked Habibi if he thought it was wrong for me to ask God to fix my foot.  His answer was fair, but still put me to shame a little bit.

In Daniel 3, King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon orders Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to be thrown into a fiery furnace because they refused to worship an image of gold.  After summoning them before him to explain themselves, they reply, "O Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter.  If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king.  But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up." (Daniel 3:16-18)

SPOILER ALERT:  Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego end up getting thrown into the furnace.  You think it's going to be a real bummer of an ending, but God displays His power before all of Babylon by saving them from the fires.  "Not a hair on their heads was singed, and their clothing was not scorched.  They didn't even smell of smoke!"  (Daniel 3:27).  As incredible as that is, the unwavering faith of these three is equally amazing to me.  They know that God can save them from the fire, but trust that -even if He chooses not to do so- He is still an almighty God who loves His children, and uses all things to bring glory to His kingdom.

While I still hope and pray that I'll be able to run this Sunday, Habibi gave me something bigger to think about.  Of course, if God can save these three guys from being burned alive, He can probably deal with a little case of tendonitis.  (Wow.  I suddenly feel really small.)  However, just because He can doesn't mean that He will or should.  (Ouch.)  I will probably continue to whine and beg God to fix my foot this week, but I'm also asking Him to give me the ability (strength?  humility?  spiritual stamina?) to accept His response...either way.  I will hate it if I can't run, but I will hate it even more if I miss a golden opportunity to glorify Him.

Either way, I get pancakes for dinner tonight, so it can't be all that bad.

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