Linda Ronstadt’s version of Warren Zevon’s “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me” popped into my head the minute I figured out that I was no longer able to heal myself. In October of 2015, I made the mistake of stepping awkwardly off of a friend’s porch as I turned to wave goodbye. The minute my right foot hit the ground, I knew I had injured my body. I didn’t fall. Perhaps I should have. Despite the obvious pain in my leg, hip, thigh, quad, hamstring, screaming muscles, and pride, I figured I would rest a few days, stretch more, and get over it. For the next few months, I alternated walking and running. I knew my gait was wrong. Occasionally on hills, my right leg collapsed. I was in running denial. After a fairly decent four-mile run on January 23rd, my body suddenly seized up like a broken corkscrew. After a series of x-rays showed that my spine was fine, my doctor informed me that I would have to have physical therapy. I headed home and sang to myself: “Poor, poor, pitiful me.”
This wouldn’t be my first dance with physical therapy. About twelve years ago, I hurt my back shoveling snow and had to go to PT for six weeks and attend back school. During the first week of intense pain caused by a bulging disc, I was in a Vicodin-induced euphoric stage. I liked it a little too much. After being stretched out on a rack-like bed, learning exercises that would help me get stronger, and finding out ways to rake leaves and shovel snow without hurting my back, I finally recovered. I no longer wanted to sleep on the floor. I could drive a stick shift again without wincing as I changed gears. Spring came. Birds sang. I could run again. And then one day I found out I could not float through the air. Hadn’t my mother always warned me to watch where I was going? Although I didn’t fall, the minute my right foot hit the ground, I knew I was in trouble. Ouch.
In early February, my doctor listened to me recite my excuses for not coming in four months earlier. She didn’t even roll her eyes at me. After listening to me whine for a few minutes, she gave me a prescription for Cyclobenzaprine and Naproxen to help with the pain. I took the Naproxen for four days, before I decided to quit. All I could think about was drinking Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. I didn’t even try the other drug. I wanted to embrace my pain. The following week I headed to my PT assessment, and I was told me that I would run again, but I had four weeks of PT to look forward to. My iliotibial band was a mess. Let the exercises begin.
As part of my daily routine, I work out twice-daily to strengthen my core, hips, hamstrings, quads, and thighs. I work out the elliptical trainer. I walk slowly. After almost four weeks of physical therapy at a facility in Houghton Lake, I have developed a love-hate relationship with my physical therapist. When I told her I was going to write about her for my blog, I asked her if I should use an alias for her name since she obviously was the Sweeney Todd of the PT world. She laughed and said I could call her Debbie.
Debbie, despite being a wonderful PT, introduced me to the world of the Graston Technique®. This particular use of stainless steel instruments used to break up scar tissue is guaranteed to locate your sore spots and make you sit up, see stars, and wish you had been smarter a long time ago. With apologies to Bryan Adams, “it cuts like a knife.” My Graston tool looks like a very large knife. The tool leaves bruises. Debbie promises me that she is breaking down the knots in my iliotibial band. These unwanted knots formed in my muscles while I was stupidly trying to heal myself. They are nasty. They hurt. They are the three stooges of my nightmares, and I can feel them when I try and massage them on a regular routine. I think of beer. I think of chocolate. I think of swimming in the ocean with sharks. Poor, poor pitiful me.
A few days after I started PT and was firmly entrenched in my pitiful mood, I went to the Winterläufe race in Frankenmuth with my son. I had signed up for the race, but since I had zero chance of running or walking the 8k race, I decided to go along and cheer on my son and take pictures. This was a new experience for me. I am not used to the sidelines during road races. Matt placed third in his age group and won a cowbell. I have never wanted a cowbell so much in my life. I now stare at people running on the roads with envy and despair.
On March 1st, the folks at PT will assess my body to see if I need more PT, or if I can work out on my own. Last week, I asked Debbie if I could at least walk the Bay City St. Patrick’s Day race, and she, in turn, asked me if I could walk without being competitive. Umm, sure, I said. I can teach my body to stroll. I told her I had walked 2.5 miles on the road recently and had walked fifteen-minute miles, and it seemed really slow. I even made a playlist that has more mellow songs on it. Debbie didn’t seem convinced that I could participate in a race and take it easy.
I guess my stubbornness and my inability to be patient got the better of me this time. I miss swearing at inattentive drivers on the road. I miss the endorphin rush that kicks in when I run. Instead, I work out inside and dream about the day I can run again. I do my exercise routine while I listen to the blues. I think about what that first run is going to be like when I get the go ahead. I will pretend that Debbie is chasing me with the Graston tool.
I’ve got the elliptical trainer blues, baby. This winter weather is so unkind.
I’ve got the elliptical trainer blues, baby. This winter weather is so unkind.
I can’t run on icy roads, and dangerous wind chills are freezing my mind.
I haven’t been able to run outside for over a week. Is this any way to start a new year’s resolution to run more and become more fit? The last time my running shoes hit the pavement—wait, the icy, snowy, dangerous roads, I practically had to crawl up a hill that I had managed to slip-slide down ten minutes earlier. What fresh hell was this? After the men in the DTE Energy truck shook their heads at me as they tried to avoid running over me on Killer Hill, I wondered if I should do the unthinkable: work out inside. This was the beginning of my winter madness—thus far—in my basement torture chamber, home of my elliptical trainer.
The elliptical trainer is new and somewhat beautiful, well, if you are into workout equipment. Our ten-year-old treadmill started spewing plastic parts and trying to strangle our feet by feeding the band into the motor. I decided to switch from a treadmill to an elliptical trainer, because I had a vague memory of working out on an elliptical trainer at a gym I went to a long time ago. Perhaps a new style of workout was just what I needed. ET would be my comrade in arms.
ET’s perfect face consists of a shiny screen with pre-set workouts of various resistances and speeds. Its arms move, whether or not you are holding on to them, and they are oh-so fit. No chicken wings for this wily girl. ET’s legs are sturdy—sort of like a hockey player’s legs. Although ET’s feet are enormous so that even a small elephant could go toe-to-toe and slow dance, it has a smooth glide to it. I feel as if I am cross-country skiing on it or replicating the sixties dance the monkey. I tried watching television as I became acquainted with ET. I soon found out that trying to navigate the remote with my right hand while ET kept throwing quick right jabs at my face just wasn’t going to work out. Come on woman, I said to myself, use your iPod! Pretend you are out running the roads and feeling happy. The moment I heard Miranda Lambert’s “Gravity is a Bitch” from my playlist, I felt as if I had been reborn.
Yes, ET allows you to stride, work your muscles, swear, sweat, and do it all to a beat, but it is not running. I want to break up with ET, but Mother Nature keeps flipping me off. Doesn’t she understand how much I miss not bonding with her? Doesn’t she miss my interaction with rude drivers on the road? I’m almost positive my husband misses hearing my ten-minute soliloquies about my daily running experiences. After I work out on ET, I trudge upstairs, look longingly outside as if missing a long-lost lover, and curse the snow and ice. The chickadees, blue jays, nuthatches, cardinals, and woodpeckers seem to sigh along with me as they shoot back and forth between the snow-covered pine trees before dipping down into the various birdfeeders in our yard. The deer tracks in the yard remind me that something is moving around outside at night. My tracks from snow shoeing several days earlier have all but disappeared.
One of my goals for the New Year, dare I say resolution and incur the wrath of those who say the word resolution is de rigueur, is to whine less about things I cannot control and do something about it instead. Well, dang! I also decided to swear less this year, but I blew that one about a minute after I announced it to the family. Should I create a new goal/resolution? Are goals and resolutions merely a lost cause for me in 2015? Absolutely not. I will continue to bond with ET until the dangerous wind chills die down, and the roads are somewhat safe. Although the sides of the roads are a little narrower now with all of the snow that has fallen, I will soon be out there waving at the snow plow drivers as I jump out of their way and give the peace sign to drivers who refuse to move over. My blues will evaporate the minute I hit the road in my hat, gloves, and several layers of clothing. I will breathe the rapturous fresh air. For the time being though, I think ET is in the mood for a little J.J. Cale: “They call me the breeze. I keep blowing down the road.”