I got some super sweet birthday wishes from some of the girls – and then we were off.
Training Camp was great. Right up until the point where I fell on my knee wrong and hurt it. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that under that tightly strapped knee pad there was something out of sorts, a dull ache that crept from under my kneecap and threatened to spread… fast. I fell on it again and that was it. It was time to get off the track. The rest of the day consisted of stretching, icing, attempting to get back onto the track for more drills, falling on it again, feeling the sharp pain, and then stretching and icing some more. Not great.
This morning my knee was still swollen, still sore, and its range of motion worsened by the night’s sleep.
“Welcome to your Thirties, Marlene. You are officially OLD.”
I felt awkward around the girls, because I didn’t know what was wrong. Then one of the girls came over and said knowingly; “That’s the same knee as before, isn’t it?” I didn’t really answer her, because I hadn’t connected the dots yet. Though she could see right away the connection between the pain I had in the past with today’s injury. (Man, I can be so blind to these things sometimes. I thank my girls for having my back when even I can’t put two and two together).
It was only on the drive back home today when it all came together for me: this knee acted up months ago, when I fell at derby practice and strained it in some way. Then all of a sudden I was having trouble running. I ignored the soreness for a while, and then tried to “fix” it with knee sleeves. Then I tried run-walking, then I tried just using the elliptical. I thought I had shin splints. I thought I was just increasing mileage too quickly. I thought I could run through the pain. And now…? Now I’m having a hard time walking, and climbing the two flights of stairs to my apartment takes an excruciatingly long time.
So I’m going to the physiotherapy clinic tomorrow, and hopefully will get a diagnosis and begin what is sure to be a slow, laboured recovery.
It’s bummed me out, but also has made me disappointed in my inability to read my own body. Why the disconnect? Why did I think that I was somehow immune to injury? I jumped right into a new sport (Derby), widely varying running programs (two week blitzes, anyone?) and even threw in the odd tennis game here and there, with nary a stretch before or after. Did I really think I could be as limber as I was when I turned 20?
What it comes down to is that I’m sad. I miss running. I miss being able to put some shoes on, head out the door, and spend 20, or 40, or 60 minutes with just myself, just my thoughts, and just let time and pressures and stresses slip away. I miss looking out at the canal, or along a shady path, or up at some gorgeous house, and feeling quelled by it.
I also miss derby. I’ve only been to a handful of practices this month, and it looks like I’ll be missing a couple more. I miss being on my skates, honing a new skill, learning a new move. I miss my girls. The time I spent on skates this weekend (albeit too short) was AMAZING. I felt so good getting out there and getting my a$$ kicked. I wanted so badly to be on that track, and scrimmage with the girls, but I couldn’t, and that just sucks.
I’ll post more after I’ve seen a specialist, and know exactly what is wrong with the knee.
Sigh. Mega Sigh.
PS. On a brighter note, Ange bought me two books for my birthday: one of which is Into the Wild. Jon Krakauer is one of the COOLEST people on earth. The things he writes stays with me for days. I think it’s because he has a fairly unassuming manner, and so can lead his readers into pretty heavy subject matter with assurance. If he was any more flamboyant in his writing, I’d be too scared to get caught up in a maelstrom – but as he writes, I feel calmed, and that he could somehow shelter me (the reader) from the impending storm.