I was reading this month's issue of Runner's World this past week and came upon an article that struck a chord... Hell Week ... which seemed appropriately named since, if you read it is about a mom sidelined from running for a week because of an ankle injury. Well folks, we're going on almost 25 days here without a run logged by yours truly, and while I really empathize with this woman and her plight, I would like to see her on Day 14. Or Day 17. Or Day 22. It's going to take more than a bandaid from her son to make it all better. At this point, all the bandaids in the world aren't bringing running back quickly enough for me, so, unfortunately it is my family that is paying the price. My poor husband has been so sympathetic and good to me. Especially when my emotions are running from complacent to wildly tearful in the matter of a couple of minutes. He even felt bad enough to buy dinner twice last week. And offer me a new outfit. Or a new ring. It's a good thing I wasn't having a prosthetic leg put on because who knows what he would have been offering... and our budget can't afford much more than the dinners out last week! I'm sure at this point he's wondering why he didn't leave me a broken and bloody heap out on the trail.
So, long story short. Another trip to the doctor's office to find out why I wasn't magically healed. Another x-ray to make sure that there aren't hidden fractures. Nope. All good. But, the bone is bruised, no running/hiking/lower impact sports until it feels better plus two weeks for good measure. I was told this could take up to six weeks. Thank goodness that by Saturday I felt like I wasn't needing the handicapped placard anymore. In fact, today at work, lots of people noticed that I am walking at a pretty normal gait.
So, instead of counting how many days it's been since I ran, I think my new tactic will be counting down the days left until I can run. Right now we are at 12 days and counting. That sounds lots better than the 35 days it will ultimately be when I can run again.