A Runner Limps into a Bar with a Boot…
So our last run went for a measly 2 1/2 miles – Straxi and I headed out to the trails on a beautiful day, with the intent to step up our training, and enjoy the weather as well.
It did not go as planned.
The weather certainly didn’t pose a problem, nor did Straxi. It was me. More specifically, it was my foot. My heel. I have a satanicly-sized bone spur on my heel, and when I saw the podiatrist on my birthday, a full week after my last run, after repeated soaking, constant resting, and foam rolling, I left carrying a boot.
That was NOT the birthday present I had planned for myself (actually, it was either these or these – not sure which now, but one of the two) but now I’m glad I didn’t buy either. They would have sat in the corner, in their lovely box, mocking me.
I never really realized how much I depend on running for my identity. I get so incredibly much from being a runner, and thinking of myself as a runner, and while I knew that somewhere in my head, I sure didn’t **really** get it until now. So I try to gain as much as I can from thinking of myself as an injured runner, versus not as a runner at all. I guess it helps a little.
The run was really, really hard. My foot hurt so badly, by the time I called it quits and we headed back to the car, I had gone from occasionally running, to barely running, to only walking, to considering crawling. Talk about some really serious eye watering pain.
When I next saw my chiropractor (the most caring and with it doc I’ve had), he suggested a podiatrist, and I called – immediately – but he didn’t take my insurance. Thank god for insurance, by the way, otherwise, I would just not be able to run at all. Using the insurance website, I picked from a number in the area, and found a good one, I think. It’s really a crap shoot when you’re going just by whether or not they take your insurance, which is so frustrating. My doctor, whom I trust implicitly, suggested one guy. That guy wasn’t in my magical, invisible circle of possible docs, so out he went. I guess I could have paid out of pocket, but…well, no I couldn’t. I don’t have that kind of money, and health care has already bankrupted me once.
I’m in the boot for three weeks, then I get fitted for orthotics. I’m on steroids, pain meds (arthritic pain meds, at that – the indignities simply DO NOT STOP), and I sound like a pirate when I walk.
So going to the podiatrist – on my birthday, of all bloody days – I left with a boot. A boot, and a picture of a really heinous heel spur. I wish I had had a bow to put on the boot.