Unsatisfied - The Replacements

The doctor is sending me to get an MRI. The three letters that come to mind for me in this situation are WTF. The MRI is a special kind of x-ray that shows soft tissue and does all these other fancy things, but what it really means for me is that I didn't get the cortisone shot in case the fascia on my foot is actually torn. This is what they call in the business of training a harsh toke.The good doctor has put me on a steady diet of anti-infammatories, two each morning and evening, a day off from training yesterday, and perhaps today as well, although I am going to try and engage in some kind of activity if I can't do the 6-8 miles from yesterday. If there is no tear, I will go get the shots next week. 


The doctor came in and looked at the old dogs and poked around. It didn't take long. When I got up to walk out, she took one look at my gait and said You better go ahead and take today off. Poor thing. Then she asked me a bunch of questions about past injuries. 


Ever had a broken bone? 
No. Maybe my toe when I was little but we never found out because no one really cares if your toe is actually broken or not. 
Uh huh. Well, I'm trying to determine your pain tolerance.
Oh. I haven't had a baby either. (She laughs. Even though I'm really not joking and wonder what kind of chemicals the body creates to allow such a thing to happen to women. And then what kind of memory loss we all employ to let people go ahead and do it again.) But you know I do have almost forty tattoos or something. 
Yes you do. 


The doctor makes it clear to me that she believes I will still be able to participate in the race. Nonetheless I am gripped by worry that my big big goal is being fucked with by the gods. It's surprising how sad I feel. I mean I feel so sad, right there in the fancy downtown office, like a girl who actually has a shot at the championship. A gold medal once every four years. I mean if worse came to worse, I could run the Nike women's marathon in October. Rumor has it the course is less punishing, and a good portion of it runs along the beach. That's pretty. Plus they pamper the gals and you get a Tiffany charm. At least that's what I heard. But I don't want to wait until October. I want to do the thing now. 


There are two great things that came of my time in the waiting room. I did my best not to hand my day over to panic and depression. While I did not wholly succeed at this, part of the process was coming up with a backup plan. I could just gather my friends and family on Saturday before the official race and do the course anyhow, alone, at my own pace without the hubbub and pressure of having 24,999 other people around plus staff. Or I could just show up, do what I can do, and accept that that's all I had. Whoda thunk I have this much at all? Not me. That is the fucking truth of it. The other thing that was nice to really have time for in that room was a wash of gratitude about health insurance. Part of being a grocer, aside from the insane amount of glamor and fame it provides, is the health insurance. Because I work at a store where the workers own the business, we voted to really provide ourselves with means to take care of our bodies and those of our families. Even our gay families. It's amazing. I can look up the sports medicine specialist dood and know it's an option for me to go. I can go get the WTF, I mean MRI and just know that's going to be okay. Amazing. Bring on that pallet of cat food. I'll stock it happily. 


Anyhow, things already seem a little better just from the anti-inflammatories I took yesterday and this morning. I am sure I'll make it to the course, and all my travels down the avenues of fear and sadness yesterday will be relegated to mere simple scenic routes of life, not based in any kind of tragic outcome. The sausage will prevail!


Love,
Sara Elise