The good news is we're getting a cat! I feel kinda bad because Pirate really, REALLY wanted a kitten,* but we went to the other local animal shelter on Friday and absolutely fell in love. He's brown and white with really striking markings, very fluffy, is 2 years old, prone to urinary tract infections, is incredibly friendly and cuddly, and his name is Fred.
The shelter doesn't know much about his history as he was brought in as a stray, but he's waaaay to friendly with people to have been born stray. I suspect he was dumped by an owner who couldn't cope with his bladder problems.
But the good people at the shelter have got his problems under control, and assure us that all he needs is to be fed a special diet and he should be fine. I'm sure he'll still have the occassional flare-up, but I'll watch his litter closely and get his urine tested every 6 months or so, which is no big deal at all.
So after we visited him I decided I was completely in love with him, and I looked at Pirate with big, doleful eyes and he gave in. He's such a good man, but i do feel a bit guilty. I've promised him that after Fred is all settled in we will look for a kitten. Someone seriously needs a kitten. Bless.
And now for The Bad News.
I am sick as a dog. I don't know what's wrong, but I have the worst sore throat in human history. The throat started Friday afternoon, and by the small hours saturday morning my whole body was in agony. My head was pounding, my throat was so sore I couldn't sip water without extreme discomfort, and every muscle and joint in my body ached. I could barely move. I spent the day lying on the couch and moaning.
Today I am a little better. The body aches have subsided somehwat, so I'm more comfortable than I was yesterday, but everything above my collar bone still hurts like a bitch: my head is pounding, and when i swallow it feels like someone is choking me to death and the pain goes right up my ear canals. I've managed to eat a scrambled egg, 2 popsicles, and 2 glasses of apple juice. That's since Friday night, and now it's sunday morning. Pirate tried to get me to drink some Lemsip** but hot things make my throat hurt more and after it cooled it was so disgusting i gagged and almost threw up. Oh yeah, I've had some nausea and stomach cramping as well.
Clearly I am dying.
Does anyone know a disease that is characterized by an incredibly sore throat and massive body aches? Cuz really, if it wasn't for all the pain I'm in, I would just have a slight stuffy nose and that would be it. I'm seriosuly wondering if it's not my tonsils. This is truly not your run-of-the-mill sore throat.
Oh yeah, there's more: Pirate got contacts!
It's very strange. Normally the only time I see him without his glasses is when we're making love, and therefore I find it a huge turn-on when he takes them off, because I know what it foretells. But now he's wearing contacts and every time I look at him I think I'm about to get some. If I wasn't in so much fucking pain I'd be the most turned-on woman in the western world right about now.
*"self-propelled balls of entertaiment" according to Pirate
**Theraflu to you Yanks
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
No-man's Land
I saw a new specialist yesterday about my back. He's the head of physical therapy at Plymouth's largest hospital, and he specializes in lower back pain.
I'm not in quite a sufficiently poor state to justify surgery at this point. Most days I can function just fine. It's really only about 1 day a fortnight when I'm genuinely unable to do basic things for myself like get dressed and wipe my ass. Most other days I have pain on and off throughout the day, but I can do the things I need to do, albeit a bit stiffly.
The problem is, I've already just about exhausted all the non-surgical options. I'm fit, healthy, strong, and flexible. Given that, there's very little I can gain from further physical therapy. There are a few things that can be worked on, some movements that I can't do, so they are giving me an NHS physio who will give me more/new excercises, etc. But The Expert said he couldn't guarantee it would have any real impact on my quality of life.
So I'm in a bit of a medical no-man's land. If I were any worse, they would operate, but I'm too healthy to benefit much from phys. Arg.
I asked about my long-term prognosis. His response? (And this is a direct quote) "You have a bad back."
Thanks.
The one small segment of silver lining is that if I do get any worse I'm an absolutely perfect candidate for a particular kind of back surgery that no one else had discussed with me. Instead of removing the disk and fusing the vertebrae, which I thought was the only option, they can add little rubber springs to my L4 and L5 vertebrae on either side of the damaged disk to give it more stability. It's only got a 50-70% success rate, but because I'm such a perfect candidate for it (young, healthy, fit, and with a single-level problem (ie only one affected disk)), they put me at the top end of that estimate, and maybe as high as 80%.
So in the meantime I muddle on as best I can, unlikely to get better, and waiting to get worse, so that then I can get better.
I'm not in quite a sufficiently poor state to justify surgery at this point. Most days I can function just fine. It's really only about 1 day a fortnight when I'm genuinely unable to do basic things for myself like get dressed and wipe my ass. Most other days I have pain on and off throughout the day, but I can do the things I need to do, albeit a bit stiffly.
The problem is, I've already just about exhausted all the non-surgical options. I'm fit, healthy, strong, and flexible. Given that, there's very little I can gain from further physical therapy. There are a few things that can be worked on, some movements that I can't do, so they are giving me an NHS physio who will give me more/new excercises, etc. But The Expert said he couldn't guarantee it would have any real impact on my quality of life.
So I'm in a bit of a medical no-man's land. If I were any worse, they would operate, but I'm too healthy to benefit much from phys. Arg.
I asked about my long-term prognosis. His response? (And this is a direct quote) "You have a bad back."
Thanks.
The one small segment of silver lining is that if I do get any worse I'm an absolutely perfect candidate for a particular kind of back surgery that no one else had discussed with me. Instead of removing the disk and fusing the vertebrae, which I thought was the only option, they can add little rubber springs to my L4 and L5 vertebrae on either side of the damaged disk to give it more stability. It's only got a 50-70% success rate, but because I'm such a perfect candidate for it (young, healthy, fit, and with a single-level problem (ie only one affected disk)), they put me at the top end of that estimate, and maybe as high as 80%.
So in the meantime I muddle on as best I can, unlikely to get better, and waiting to get worse, so that then I can get better.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Back to back
My back has been getting slowly but steadily worse for several weeks. By this weekend I was having serious problems, including but not limited to:
So I finally did it. I slept on the floor.
I expected that I might feel somewhat better after a night on the floor, instead of in a bed so soft that when you sit on it your ass sinks below the level of your knees. I did not expect that after one night on the floor that I would feel completely fine.
That pretty much settles it. We need a new mattress.
For budget reasons we'd really rather not make a major purchase until after Christmas. As a stop-gap we're going to try putting a sheet of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Several people have suggested that this will help, so it seems the obvious first step.
(Oh, and I've got an appointment with the doctor in the morning to see if there's anything else that can be done from a medical perspective. In the past 2 years the NHS has shown a distinct disinterest in my back problems, but this is a new doctor so maybe he'll be more openminded to helping a 29-year-old healthy woman with chronic pain issues. I'm not holding my breath, though.)
- pain that reduced me to tears every time i sneezed or coughed
- an inability to bend over to put on my own knickers
- an inability to bend over to wash my face
- an inability to get into a car w/o assistance
- an inability to twist around to wipe my own ass
So I finally did it. I slept on the floor.
I expected that I might feel somewhat better after a night on the floor, instead of in a bed so soft that when you sit on it your ass sinks below the level of your knees. I did not expect that after one night on the floor that I would feel completely fine.
That pretty much settles it. We need a new mattress.
For budget reasons we'd really rather not make a major purchase until after Christmas. As a stop-gap we're going to try putting a sheet of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Several people have suggested that this will help, so it seems the obvious first step.
(Oh, and I've got an appointment with the doctor in the morning to see if there's anything else that can be done from a medical perspective. In the past 2 years the NHS has shown a distinct disinterest in my back problems, but this is a new doctor so maybe he'll be more openminded to helping a 29-year-old healthy woman with chronic pain issues. I'm not holding my breath, though.)
Monday, July 21, 2008
I blame the sea gulls
for the absolutely shitty morning I had.
It was because the seagulls were squawking that I leapt from my bed and lunged for the water gun on the desk to shoot the fucking bastards,
Which caused me to get dizzy and black out because I got out of bed too fast,
Which caused to lose both my balance and my consciousness
Which caused me to fall off my desk (where I was kneeling to reach the window to shoot the sea gulls)
Which caused me to (somehow, I really don't know how this happened) to fall off the desk in such a way that I scraped my back against a corner of it, catching a raised mole on my back and ripping the thing off my flesh, creating a 10-inch long vertical gouge in my back.
The pain of which caused me to go in to shock (after I came to in a pile on the floor)
Which caused me to get all hot and feverish and nauseous
Which caused me to throw up all over my laundry before I could get it together enough to ring the doctor, which I eventually did, hauled myself up to student health, and got myself bandaged up nicely.*
I could have done it myself save for the difficulty of reaching my own back.
All because of the GODDAMN FUCKING NOISY SEAGULLS.
*The bandages all fell off in the 15 minute walk back to my flat. Fucking NHS can't even apply a bandaid properly.
It was because the seagulls were squawking that I leapt from my bed and lunged for the water gun on the desk to shoot the fucking bastards,
Which caused me to get dizzy and black out because I got out of bed too fast,
Which caused to lose both my balance and my consciousness
Which caused me to fall off my desk (where I was kneeling to reach the window to shoot the sea gulls)
Which caused me to (somehow, I really don't know how this happened) to fall off the desk in such a way that I scraped my back against a corner of it, catching a raised mole on my back and ripping the thing off my flesh, creating a 10-inch long vertical gouge in my back.
The pain of which caused me to go in to shock (after I came to in a pile on the floor)
Which caused me to get all hot and feverish and nauseous
Which caused me to throw up all over my laundry before I could get it together enough to ring the doctor, which I eventually did, hauled myself up to student health, and got myself bandaged up nicely.*
I could have done it myself save for the difficulty of reaching my own back.
All because of the GODDAMN FUCKING NOISY SEAGULLS.
*The bandages all fell off in the 15 minute walk back to my flat. Fucking NHS can't even apply a bandaid properly.
Monday, July 14, 2008
How I pulled my ass cheek
This weekend Pirate and I were going to see Wall-e, but I got the date for the release wrong and it wasn't out yet. Grrrr.
So instead we went to the club and stuck me in the nets to teach me how to bat properly. (Apparently the half-ton I got this weekend for the Bowl Movement CC was a fluke.) It turns out I'm a left-hander.
I started out as a right-hander, which is what would be expected, since I'm right-handed. But i just couldn't get the coordination right. It felt forced and contrived and totally unnatural. So I switched sides. After 10 seconds of feeling slightly weird it all came together and I was blocking shots like a pro.
Pirate is a good coach, if slightly exasperating. In his job he is a pirate trainer, taking kids off the street and instilling in them all the best pirating values. I got a good sense yesterday of how his wee piratettes see him.
Several buckets of tennis balls later (i didn't have any pads, so we used softer balls), Pirate's bat was feeling very heavy indeed, and my back was getting sore, so we called it a day. I woke up today with a pulled ass.
So instead we went to the club and stuck me in the nets to teach me how to bat properly. (Apparently the half-ton I got this weekend for the Bowl Movement CC was a fluke.) It turns out I'm a left-hander.
I started out as a right-hander, which is what would be expected, since I'm right-handed. But i just couldn't get the coordination right. It felt forced and contrived and totally unnatural. So I switched sides. After 10 seconds of feeling slightly weird it all came together and I was blocking shots like a pro.
Pirate is a good coach, if slightly exasperating. In his job he is a pirate trainer, taking kids off the street and instilling in them all the best pirating values. I got a good sense yesterday of how his wee piratettes see him.
Several buckets of tennis balls later (i didn't have any pads, so we used softer balls), Pirate's bat was feeling very heavy indeed, and my back was getting sore, so we called it a day. I woke up today with a pulled ass.
Friday, May 09, 2008
I may have spoke to soon maybe
or, How the Bitch Got Her Mojo Back
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Back early
If the point of training camp is to experience pain in places you didn't know you had places, then this one was a cracking great success. On every other level, it must be said, it was a pathetic and agonizing failure.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
Monday, December 17, 2007
zero degrees
Did you notice how warm it wasn't this weekend? I cycled to training and back on both saturday and sunday. Saturday was OK. I got to the boathouse, got out the scull, did my 12k, and got home just as the Pirate was waking up. It did take him a solid 15 minutes of massaging my ass to warm it up and bring it back to life, but overall I felt fine. (Alright, fine; after a 15-minute ass massage i was a lot better than "fine." But i did genuinely need it -- my ass was ice to the touch!)
Sunday was a different story. The smashed potatoes I had for breakfast didn't last me the day, and I committed the dual fatal errors of A) underestimating how many calories my body would use up just keeping warm, and B) forgot to pack extra food.
After 9k of hard work (no paddling about, me) I was ravenous, and I knew I had a long, hard bike ride to get home. Oh, and fatal error 3: no cell phone to call for a rescue! So i hauled off the water early and got on Ye Olde Velocipede and headed back to the Pirate's: 15 miles and most of it uphill, including a 2-mile constant uphill stretch. (And keep in mind it was only 1 degree out.)
By the time I got to the bottom of the A4 and I had 3 possible routes. Normally I take the most safe route, traffic-wise, but that also happens to be both the longest and most difficult. It includes extra hills and a super-long climb that is hell, but the road surface is in much better repair, there are no lorries, it's straighter so what few cars there are go well around me, and the scenery is spectacular in places.
Normally when I reach the point at which I decide on a route I think, "Which way is safest?" Sunday when I left the boathouse I thought, "Which way is easiest?"
By the time I reached the place where I had to make a decision I was so cold and weak I asked myself, "Which way is the best for walking?"
I got off and began pushing my bike up the long hill. At least the sun was shining. But I was trudging. My back hurt so much I was crying and trying to dodge traffic through the tears.** For miles and miles I walked. No, I'm not exaggerating. I walked the last 4 miles.
When I finally reached the topmost bit of the hill and the plateau where the Pirate resides, I tried to get back on the bike to ride the remaining few hundred meters. I swung my right leg up and only succeeded in kicking the rack and knocking the bike over. Brittley I bent over and picked the bike up and tried again, with all my effort. I got my leg up higher, but the movement destabilized me, and without the strenght to control my balance, I fell over.
Yes, I fell over trying to get back on my bike. I was that fatigued. I had been in the cold, freezing temps for 5 hours at that point, and I was done.
I stumbled through the door, and collapsed on the couch. Pirate, in his usual cheerful manner, asked how was training? *perky perky perky* "I'm proper fucked," I feebly explained. Within minutes I was covered in blankets and eating a giant bowl of banana slices in hot custard. Mmm! Goopy, simple sugars! Just the thing. Sadly, the hot water heater in the house wasn't working, so the hot bath I so desperately needed was not on the menu. No problem! Pirate packed me a bag, bundled me into the car, and drove me to his gym, where the showers are awesome.
If that ain't lurve, ladies, gents, dogs, and other collar-wearers, then I durn't know what is.
**I couldn't figure out at the time why my back was in so much pain, but in retrospect I think it was that the muscles that normally support my spine and compensate for the fucked disk were so exhausted that they weren't doing their job, and the disk was compressing without my muscles to help hold everything up.
Sunday was a different story. The smashed potatoes I had for breakfast didn't last me the day, and I committed the dual fatal errors of A) underestimating how many calories my body would use up just keeping warm, and B) forgot to pack extra food.
After 9k of hard work (no paddling about, me) I was ravenous, and I knew I had a long, hard bike ride to get home. Oh, and fatal error 3: no cell phone to call for a rescue! So i hauled off the water early and got on Ye Olde Velocipede and headed back to the Pirate's: 15 miles and most of it uphill, including a 2-mile constant uphill stretch. (And keep in mind it was only 1 degree out.)
By the time I got to the bottom of the A4 and I had 3 possible routes. Normally I take the most safe route, traffic-wise, but that also happens to be both the longest and most difficult. It includes extra hills and a super-long climb that is hell, but the road surface is in much better repair, there are no lorries, it's straighter so what few cars there are go well around me, and the scenery is spectacular in places.
Normally when I reach the point at which I decide on a route I think, "Which way is safest?" Sunday when I left the boathouse I thought, "Which way is easiest?"
By the time I reached the place where I had to make a decision I was so cold and weak I asked myself, "Which way is the best for walking?"
I got off and began pushing my bike up the long hill. At least the sun was shining. But I was trudging. My back hurt so much I was crying and trying to dodge traffic through the tears.** For miles and miles I walked. No, I'm not exaggerating. I walked the last 4 miles.
When I finally reached the topmost bit of the hill and the plateau where the Pirate resides, I tried to get back on the bike to ride the remaining few hundred meters. I swung my right leg up and only succeeded in kicking the rack and knocking the bike over. Brittley I bent over and picked the bike up and tried again, with all my effort. I got my leg up higher, but the movement destabilized me, and without the strenght to control my balance, I fell over.
Yes, I fell over trying to get back on my bike. I was that fatigued. I had been in the cold, freezing temps for 5 hours at that point, and I was done.
I stumbled through the door, and collapsed on the couch. Pirate, in his usual cheerful manner, asked how was training? *perky perky perky* "I'm proper fucked," I feebly explained. Within minutes I was covered in blankets and eating a giant bowl of banana slices in hot custard. Mmm! Goopy, simple sugars! Just the thing. Sadly, the hot water heater in the house wasn't working, so the hot bath I so desperately needed was not on the menu. No problem! Pirate packed me a bag, bundled me into the car, and drove me to his gym, where the showers are awesome.
If that ain't lurve, ladies, gents, dogs, and other collar-wearers, then I durn't know what is.
**I couldn't figure out at the time why my back was in so much pain, but in retrospect I think it was that the muscles that normally support my spine and compensate for the fucked disk were so exhausted that they weren't doing their job, and the disk was compressing without my muscles to help hold everything up.
Monday, November 05, 2007
I'm dying
Seriously.
I can't breathe, my sinuses are full of yellow-brown goop, I've got a splitting headache, my ears are plugged, I'm coughing my lungs up, sneezing my brains out, and I ache all over.
Fucking flu.
(And before you even suggest it, Herebe, it's NOT from over-training.)
Now the only question remains, What do I want on my tombstone? Ham, mushroom, and pineapple, of course!
I can't breathe, my sinuses are full of yellow-brown goop, I've got a splitting headache, my ears are plugged, I'm coughing my lungs up, sneezing my brains out, and I ache all over.
Fucking flu.
(And before you even suggest it, Herebe, it's NOT from over-training.)
Now the only question remains, What do I want on my tombstone? Ham, mushroom, and pineapple, of course!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Total Hydraulic Failure
Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.
Ow.
OMG the pain. I started training in earnest again this week for rowing. I am officially back in action. YAY!!! After a summer of core stability exercises, pilates, and cycling 50-100 miles a week to visit the Pirate, my heart and legs are in pretty good shape but the rest of me needs serious work.
It began Monday morning with boxing. I love boxing. But I'd forgotten how much you use your abs, lats, and lower back to stabilize yourself while you're punching away. Ow the first.
Tuesday was 3x15 mins on the erg, r18-20, best split we could pull and record the meters at the end. This is not a significantly strenuous workout. As erg workouts go it's maybe half as hard as what we would consider a really really really good workout, but by the third set I was in splinters. Ow the second.
Wednesday morning was more boxing. (Notice that up to this point it's only been one training session a day. That's light. Normally we do two. This is to ease us back.) Whee!
Wednesday afternoon was a water training session. I cycled to the boathouse (50 min reasonably quick ride), did 12k on the water in a double scull at UT2, and cycled home again. (That's a total of 4 hours of exercise in one day, amigos.) When I left for the boathouse on the glorious, sunny, amber autumn afternoon that was yesterday the pain of boxing still hadn't caught up to me yet. It's a bit like drinking beer before liquer; the absorbtion rates are different and it all hits you at the same time. You know how you feel when you drink a few pints of lager and then move on to the tequila? Yeah, that kind of trainwreck. Ow the third.
By the time I got home I couldn't bend over. Not because I was so stiff, but because the muscles in my lower back were so fatiuged and exhausted that if I started to bend to, say, pick up a cup from the coffee table, I coudn't stop myself mid-bend and I just went all the way down to the floor. And then found myself unable to stand up straight again without using my arms to "walk" up a wall or piece of furniture. Pirate described it as "total hydraulic failure," and that's exactly what it was. By the third time it happened he was doing "robot death" sound-effects -- you know the kind.
I decided I should probably take today off.
In preparation for the 2k erg test I have to do tomorrow evening. Stay tuned for "Ow the Fourth."
Ow.
OMG the pain. I started training in earnest again this week for rowing. I am officially back in action. YAY!!! After a summer of core stability exercises, pilates, and cycling 50-100 miles a week to visit the Pirate, my heart and legs are in pretty good shape but the rest of me needs serious work.
It began Monday morning with boxing. I love boxing. But I'd forgotten how much you use your abs, lats, and lower back to stabilize yourself while you're punching away. Ow the first.
Tuesday was 3x15 mins on the erg, r18-20, best split we could pull and record the meters at the end. This is not a significantly strenuous workout. As erg workouts go it's maybe half as hard as what we would consider a really really really good workout, but by the third set I was in splinters. Ow the second.
Wednesday morning was more boxing. (Notice that up to this point it's only been one training session a day. That's light. Normally we do two. This is to ease us back.) Whee!
Wednesday afternoon was a water training session. I cycled to the boathouse (50 min reasonably quick ride), did 12k on the water in a double scull at UT2, and cycled home again. (That's a total of 4 hours of exercise in one day, amigos.) When I left for the boathouse on the glorious, sunny, amber autumn afternoon that was yesterday the pain of boxing still hadn't caught up to me yet. It's a bit like drinking beer before liquer; the absorbtion rates are different and it all hits you at the same time. You know how you feel when you drink a few pints of lager and then move on to the tequila? Yeah, that kind of trainwreck. Ow the third.
By the time I got home I couldn't bend over. Not because I was so stiff, but because the muscles in my lower back were so fatiuged and exhausted that if I started to bend to, say, pick up a cup from the coffee table, I coudn't stop myself mid-bend and I just went all the way down to the floor. And then found myself unable to stand up straight again without using my arms to "walk" up a wall or piece of furniture. Pirate described it as "total hydraulic failure," and that's exactly what it was. By the third time it happened he was doing "robot death" sound-effects -- you know the kind.
I decided I should probably take today off.
In preparation for the 2k erg test I have to do tomorrow evening. Stay tuned for "Ow the Fourth."
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The Unceasing Wonderfulness of the Pirate
Last week was shit. It was worse than shit. It was the bacteria on the shit. It was the shit from the shit-muching bacteria. (Hence the lack of posting.)
"Why was your week shit from shit-munching bacteria?" I hear you all ask.
Let me tell you.
Largely, it was the pain issue. Since December my back had been getting a lot better, and only popped and hurt occasionally. I was even doing some light sculling. (This was back in March.) Then, a couple weeks before Easter, things started going downhill, and fast.
By last Tuesday I was in constant, splitting pain. It was as bad as it had been back in November at the time of the initial injury. I had gone all the way back to square one.
Phyically, I was less than useless. I couldn't sit at a desk, which made working impossible. I couldn't bend over, which made everyday life impossible. And I was in constant agony. None of the painkillers I had helped. Wednesday I actually called in sick to my temp agency and told them I couldn't do the job they had scheduled for me. I felt like a complete heel.
And psychologically I was falling to pieces.
(Ironic aside: the people at the office where I work every Friday told me the love because I'm always so cheerful and sunny, unlike the girl who holds my post monday through thursday, who is apparently depressed and does nothing but whine all the time. It seems I manage a pretty good facade.)
I've been afraid to share these feeling with the Pirate because I don't want him to think I'm a nutter as well as damaged goods.
Friday I finally went for a mental health evaluation. I decided there was no point in living like this if I didn't have to. I filled out their forms and told them everything I've told you (and then some), and my GP's conclusion was that I am "significantly depressed."
Finally the NHS gets something right!
So now I'm on happy pills! whee.
Are you wondering about the title yet? So far this has all been "woe is me," and not much "hail the Pirate."
So Friday night the P came over, as usual. He knew it had been a rough week, (he even brought me strawberries to cheer me up) but he really didn't have any idea how bad I was. He found out pretty quickly when he arrived and I burst out into tears. I told him everything, including being on anti-depressant meds, which he seemed ok with.
I was in no condition to cook, so he took me for dinner to an Italian restaurant I like. Unfortunatley something I ate had a violent arguement with my stomach because I had barely finished my cappuchino when the churning started. I almost didn't make it home before the trots began.
Not being able to bend over, I had difficulty getting myself undressed, so the P helped me out of my clothes (he's got some experience at that), and got me into some loose, comfy jammies. Every Friday we listen to replays of our favorite radio programs on my computer (available from the BBC Radio 4 website), so he put on some soft lights, got the programs playing (The News Quiz and Genius), and settled himself on my bed where he let me lay against his chest, all propped up with pillows to make me still and comfy. And for 2 hours I just lay there, stomach churning, back aching, half-listening to the radio and crying quietly while he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. Eventually the meds took hold and I fell asleep in his arms. At some point he got up and laid out the bedroll and sleeping bag for himself and went to sleep on the floor, but I was long since unconscious.
The following day, Saturday, was much better. The muscle-relaxant really seemed to help and for the first time in a week I wasn't in pain. Pirate had a cricket match, but I wanted to stay in Bristol to watch the Varstiy Boat Race between Bristol and UWE.
It was a glorious day to be down by the harborside. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, conditions on the water were excellent, and University of Bristol Boat club kicked ass. We won 4 out of 5 races, the senior women being the only Bristol crew that lost. (I maintain this is becuase I was on the bank and not in the boat where I should have been.)
I felt wonderful. I could move and bend and stand and sit without stabbing pain. I shouted myself hoarse cheering for my team mates, and saw loads of friends I havn't spoke to in ages, some of them in years. I even ran into a old team mate of mine from Manchester, Speedy. I havn't seen Speedy in over 3 years. What a coincidence! It was a great day. I was only sorry the P couldn't be there with me to share it.
Then I set out on my bike to the P's house. It's about 23 miles, but it's a really nice journey. Unless of course you get two punctures in your rear tire, you realize that your rear wheel is so warped that the brakes can't work properly. (See previous post.)
When the Pirate came to collect me I felt really guilty. (When I called he was hanging out at the club watching the world cup final on the big projection TV.) He was so cheerful about it, though. He pulled up to the curb, kissed me, and gave me an orange and a banana to much on while he futzed around putting the back seat down in the car and loading the bike in.
As we headed off home he said, "Right! Here's the plan: when we get home, you're going to get in the shower and get cleaned up while I unload the bike and put the car to rights. Then we're going back down to the club to watch Sri Lanka kick the Australians' smug asses on the big projection TV."
Problem: I hadn't packed any clothes!!!!!
I knew I'd be arriving late in the evening, and that I'd be leaving first thing in the morning for the boathouse, where I'd just be wearing my stanking cycling clothes again, and going straight home from there. So I didn't see the need to pack real clothes. All I had was my pyjamas.
"No problem!" came the reply from our cheerful hero. "You can wear mine! Lucky we're the same size, eh?"
So there I was at the Pirate's local cricket club wearing his black track-suit bottoms and a T-shirt that's slightly tight on him. They fit pefectly. Scary.
When the (disappointing) outcome of the match became apparent we went home and looked at the bike, where the (disappointing) state of the bike became apparent. Time for bed.
Sunday promised to be another lovely day. I was still feeling pretty good, not much pain, but the combination of the valium and co-codomol at night make it pretty hard to come awake in the morning. It doesnt' help that the happy pills i take in the morning also make me groggy. It's a bit like walking underwater all the time.
Normally when I have to get up early and the P doesn't I just get dressed, fix myself some breakfast, and sneak out. This time the P got up with me and fixed me an omlette for breakfast.
The significance of this is not to be overlooked.
In the 9 months we've been together, the number of times he's cooked for me can be counted on one hand, and he's never, ever made me breakfast. (Unless you count slicing the bread for my toast for me.)
But sunday he made me an honest-to-god omlette. It's the little things; it really is. That omlette said "I love you" more than a fancy gift ever could.
"Why was your week shit from shit-munching bacteria?" I hear you all ask.
Let me tell you.
Largely, it was the pain issue. Since December my back had been getting a lot better, and only popped and hurt occasionally. I was even doing some light sculling. (This was back in March.) Then, a couple weeks before Easter, things started going downhill, and fast.
By last Tuesday I was in constant, splitting pain. It was as bad as it had been back in November at the time of the initial injury. I had gone all the way back to square one.
Phyically, I was less than useless. I couldn't sit at a desk, which made working impossible. I couldn't bend over, which made everyday life impossible. And I was in constant agony. None of the painkillers I had helped. Wednesday I actually called in sick to my temp agency and told them I couldn't do the job they had scheduled for me. I felt like a complete heel.
And psychologically I was falling to pieces.
- I hadn't rowed or been on the water for ages, which was making me miserable.
- I hadn't been able to do any other significant exercise as a substitute, so I wasn't getting my usual regular doses of seratonin endorphins or whatever the hell the brain chemical is that's stimulated during exercise. That stuff is critical to my mental health, and I bloody well know it.
- My inability to go about my daily life without assistance has been making me fell broken and a burden to those around me, espeically the Pirate. I've been fearful that he might leave me because he deserves a woman who is strong and healthy and who doesn't need looking after. I know this is irrational, but knowing it's irrational doesn't make the feeling go away.
- My inability to sit and work for any long period of time was making getting research done difficult to say the least, and when I was sitting I was in pain which was making it all but impossible to focus.
- Falling behind in the work was stressing me out.
- My aunt fell and broke both her feet. She's 74 and morbidly obese. This is a problem.
- My dad has just been in for surgery (well, you already know about that bit).
- My other aunt has a lump and has to have a biopsy to determine malignancy.
- The kid in the flat next door to mine dropped dead in the shower last sunday. We were friends. He was 23. Heart attack. No one saw it coming.
- Did I mention my back hurts?
(Ironic aside: the people at the office where I work every Friday told me the love because I'm always so cheerful and sunny, unlike the girl who holds my post monday through thursday, who is apparently depressed and does nothing but whine all the time. It seems I manage a pretty good facade.)
I've been afraid to share these feeling with the Pirate because I don't want him to think I'm a nutter as well as damaged goods.
Friday I finally went for a mental health evaluation. I decided there was no point in living like this if I didn't have to. I filled out their forms and told them everything I've told you (and then some), and my GP's conclusion was that I am "significantly depressed."
Finally the NHS gets something right!
So now I'm on happy pills! whee.
Are you wondering about the title yet? So far this has all been "woe is me," and not much "hail the Pirate."
So Friday night the P came over, as usual. He knew it had been a rough week, (he even brought me strawberries to cheer me up) but he really didn't have any idea how bad I was. He found out pretty quickly when he arrived and I burst out into tears. I told him everything, including being on anti-depressant meds, which he seemed ok with.
I was in no condition to cook, so he took me for dinner to an Italian restaurant I like. Unfortunatley something I ate had a violent arguement with my stomach because I had barely finished my cappuchino when the churning started. I almost didn't make it home before the trots began.
Not being able to bend over, I had difficulty getting myself undressed, so the P helped me out of my clothes (he's got some experience at that), and got me into some loose, comfy jammies. Every Friday we listen to replays of our favorite radio programs on my computer (available from the BBC Radio 4 website), so he put on some soft lights, got the programs playing (The News Quiz and Genius), and settled himself on my bed where he let me lay against his chest, all propped up with pillows to make me still and comfy. And for 2 hours I just lay there, stomach churning, back aching, half-listening to the radio and crying quietly while he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. Eventually the meds took hold and I fell asleep in his arms. At some point he got up and laid out the bedroll and sleeping bag for himself and went to sleep on the floor, but I was long since unconscious.
The following day, Saturday, was much better. The muscle-relaxant really seemed to help and for the first time in a week I wasn't in pain. Pirate had a cricket match, but I wanted to stay in Bristol to watch the Varstiy Boat Race between Bristol and UWE.
It was a glorious day to be down by the harborside. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, conditions on the water were excellent, and University of Bristol Boat club kicked ass. We won 4 out of 5 races, the senior women being the only Bristol crew that lost. (I maintain this is becuase I was on the bank and not in the boat where I should have been.)
I felt wonderful. I could move and bend and stand and sit without stabbing pain. I shouted myself hoarse cheering for my team mates, and saw loads of friends I havn't spoke to in ages, some of them in years. I even ran into a old team mate of mine from Manchester, Speedy. I havn't seen Speedy in over 3 years. What a coincidence! It was a great day. I was only sorry the P couldn't be there with me to share it.
Then I set out on my bike to the P's house. It's about 23 miles, but it's a really nice journey. Unless of course you get two punctures in your rear tire, you realize that your rear wheel is so warped that the brakes can't work properly. (See previous post.)
When the Pirate came to collect me I felt really guilty. (When I called he was hanging out at the club watching the world cup final on the big projection TV.) He was so cheerful about it, though. He pulled up to the curb, kissed me, and gave me an orange and a banana to much on while he futzed around putting the back seat down in the car and loading the bike in.
As we headed off home he said, "Right! Here's the plan: when we get home, you're going to get in the shower and get cleaned up while I unload the bike and put the car to rights. Then we're going back down to the club to watch Sri Lanka kick the Australians' smug asses on the big projection TV."
Problem: I hadn't packed any clothes!!!!!
I knew I'd be arriving late in the evening, and that I'd be leaving first thing in the morning for the boathouse, where I'd just be wearing my stanking cycling clothes again, and going straight home from there. So I didn't see the need to pack real clothes. All I had was my pyjamas.
"No problem!" came the reply from our cheerful hero. "You can wear mine! Lucky we're the same size, eh?"
So there I was at the Pirate's local cricket club wearing his black track-suit bottoms and a T-shirt that's slightly tight on him. They fit pefectly. Scary.
When the (disappointing) outcome of the match became apparent we went home and looked at the bike, where the (disappointing) state of the bike became apparent. Time for bed.
Sunday promised to be another lovely day. I was still feeling pretty good, not much pain, but the combination of the valium and co-codomol at night make it pretty hard to come awake in the morning. It doesnt' help that the happy pills i take in the morning also make me groggy. It's a bit like walking underwater all the time.
Normally when I have to get up early and the P doesn't I just get dressed, fix myself some breakfast, and sneak out. This time the P got up with me and fixed me an omlette for breakfast.
The significance of this is not to be overlooked.
In the 9 months we've been together, the number of times he's cooked for me can be counted on one hand, and he's never, ever made me breakfast. (Unless you count slicing the bread for my toast for me.)
But sunday he made me an honest-to-god omlette. It's the little things; it really is. That omlette said "I love you" more than a fancy gift ever could.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Pain post
It's been a while since I got to regale (regail? sp?) you lot with the glories of the agonies of rowing, owing to my buggered back. So I thought this week instead I'd regale you with the agonies of physical therapy.
This week I had what I hope will be my last therapy session for a while. It's expensive, so Physio lets me off coming every week if I promise to torture myself regularly at home, as per his instructions. Of course I do, because I know it's the only way I'll ever row again, and for that I would crawl naked across a bed of broken glass. (Seriously.)
Normally sessions consist of me going through a series of excercises designed to train my gluts and lower back muscles to fire properly, and strengthen my core and pelvic floor muscles. These exercises are boring, and not too bad until I've done about 20 of them. Then they suck.
But this session was different. In checking my flexibility, Physio discovered a problem with the abductor on my right leg.
Do this test:
Sit up straight on the end of your bed, with your butt cheeks barely on the bed.
Draw your left knee up to your chest and hold it there with your arms. Your right foot should remain on the floor.
Now slowly lay down on your back on the bed, keeping your left knee to your chest and your right foot on the floor.
What does your right knee do?
Does it stay in place? Or does it flop way off to the right?
Mine flopped way off to the right, because the abductor in my right thigh (muscle at top of hip becoming a tight band of tissue down by the knee) was wicked tight. Physio tried to push my right knee back in line with my body, but nothin doin.
The solution? A deep tissue massage on the outside of my right leg.
You might think this sounds pleasant. You would be wrong. Very, very wrong.
I laid down on the torture table on my left side, relaxed in a semi-fetal position. Physio got out some oil and worked some into the skin of my outer thigh. And then he started to work the muscle.
It's difficult to describe the sensation. It wasn't a sharp, searing pain like when I ruptured my disk and it felt like I had a hot knife in my back (while I rowed 4 1/2 miles at race pace). It wasn't a dull throb, like a broken toe. It was warm and spread out from the pressure of his hand through my leg like a blood stain soaking through a white shirt from a bullet wound. It seeped through me, saturating the whole lower half of my body with burning, shaking agony.
I grabbed the pillow and clutched it with my fists, trying to steady my trembling body.
"Are you laughing or crying," asked Physio.
"A little of both," I replied, truthfully. He looked perplexed for a moment and then continued, not wanting to consider too carefully the implications of the athlete on his table responding to intense pain with laughter. Hot tears ran down my face and soaked the pillow. Up and down the side of my leg he worked, pressing the ball of his hand into the muscle with (what felt like) his whole body weight. Up and down, back and forth, wave after wave of hot pain following the place where his hand had been.
After 10 minutes he had me do the sitting test again. This time my abductor didn't pull my knee out of the line of my body. His massage hurt like fuck, but it worked.
Next step is to teach the Pirate how to perform the same massage on me, so i don't have to pay the physio 19 pounds to do it. This ought to be interesting.
This week I had what I hope will be my last therapy session for a while. It's expensive, so Physio lets me off coming every week if I promise to torture myself regularly at home, as per his instructions. Of course I do, because I know it's the only way I'll ever row again, and for that I would crawl naked across a bed of broken glass. (Seriously.)
Normally sessions consist of me going through a series of excercises designed to train my gluts and lower back muscles to fire properly, and strengthen my core and pelvic floor muscles. These exercises are boring, and not too bad until I've done about 20 of them. Then they suck.
But this session was different. In checking my flexibility, Physio discovered a problem with the abductor on my right leg.
Do this test:
Sit up straight on the end of your bed, with your butt cheeks barely on the bed.
Draw your left knee up to your chest and hold it there with your arms. Your right foot should remain on the floor.
Now slowly lay down on your back on the bed, keeping your left knee to your chest and your right foot on the floor.
What does your right knee do?
Does it stay in place? Or does it flop way off to the right?
Mine flopped way off to the right, because the abductor in my right thigh (muscle at top of hip becoming a tight band of tissue down by the knee) was wicked tight. Physio tried to push my right knee back in line with my body, but nothin doin.
The solution? A deep tissue massage on the outside of my right leg.
You might think this sounds pleasant. You would be wrong. Very, very wrong.
I laid down on the torture table on my left side, relaxed in a semi-fetal position. Physio got out some oil and worked some into the skin of my outer thigh. And then he started to work the muscle.
It's difficult to describe the sensation. It wasn't a sharp, searing pain like when I ruptured my disk and it felt like I had a hot knife in my back (while I rowed 4 1/2 miles at race pace). It wasn't a dull throb, like a broken toe. It was warm and spread out from the pressure of his hand through my leg like a blood stain soaking through a white shirt from a bullet wound. It seeped through me, saturating the whole lower half of my body with burning, shaking agony.
I grabbed the pillow and clutched it with my fists, trying to steady my trembling body.
"Are you laughing or crying," asked Physio.
"A little of both," I replied, truthfully. He looked perplexed for a moment and then continued, not wanting to consider too carefully the implications of the athlete on his table responding to intense pain with laughter. Hot tears ran down my face and soaked the pillow. Up and down the side of my leg he worked, pressing the ball of his hand into the muscle with (what felt like) his whole body weight. Up and down, back and forth, wave after wave of hot pain following the place where his hand had been.
After 10 minutes he had me do the sitting test again. This time my abductor didn't pull my knee out of the line of my body. His massage hurt like fuck, but it worked.
Next step is to teach the Pirate how to perform the same massage on me, so i don't have to pay the physio 19 pounds to do it. This ought to be interesting.
Monday, August 23, 2004
The last shall be first
Inexplicably, I watched all 2 1/2 hours of the uninterrupted coverage of the women't marathon last night. Sitting alone in my living room, I scoffed out loud at the BBC's Olympic pundits who claimed that the heat would be just as trying for the Kenyan and Ethiopian athletes as the Brits .(Gimme a break. The Kenyans and Ethiopians were standing around muttering "you call this heat? You don't know from heat.") I rolled my eyes to the ceiling when the same blithering idiots swore that there would be lots of drama to come as the the medal contenders would change places numerous times on the downhill stretch to Athens, despite the significant distances separating the first four runners. And my heart broke with the rest of the UK when I saw Paula come grinding to a painful halt after just 36K. I sat there, pleading with the TV, begging her to get up and walk across the finish line for the sake of her own sanity. Finishing last is always better than quitting.
I know she was exhausted, I know she was in pain--they all were. But it wasn't pain and exhaustion that brought Paula to a halt... it was a broken heart. It's not a cooincidence that she gave up when the fourth place runner pushed past her and she lost the possiblity of even a bronze medal. Without a medal waiting, she saw no point in continuing.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not unsympathetic. I feel terrible for Paula, but I feel a lot worse for the 15 other women who couldn't finish. Women for whom there was never a realistic hope of a medal, but who showed up anyway, eclipsed by the glory of world-record holders, and gave it their best. I don't know who these women are. There was barely a mention of them in the papers. Unlike Paula, who decided after 36 kilometers that if she couldn't win she didn't want to play at all, these 15 women came armed with only a vague hope of a medal, but a more determined desire to just finish, and were ultimately defeated by the road.
I salute all the athletes who try their best. I especially bow to the last-place finishers, those for whom the temptation to quit is the strongest, and who keep going anyway. Though the offical Athens2004 website names the winner, Mizuki Noguchi of Japan, as the athlete of the day, I would like to take a moment to draw everyone's attention to Luvsanlkhundeg Otgonbayar of Mongolia, the last woman into the Panathinaiko Stadium, who crossed the finish line with a time of 3:48:42, an hour and 22 minutes after the gold had been decided.
I don't know what this woman looks like--she received no television coverage. But I imagine she was plugging along at the tail end of the pack, followed only by slow-moving police vehicles, the drivers of whom were irritated that they had to creep along behind this slowest of runners, possibly even mumbling to themselves that she might as well give up so they could go home and eat dinner. It was dark when Otgonbayar entered the stadium. She was exhaused, she was lonely (I suspect very few of the evening's road-side spectators bothered to hang around that long), and she had no hope of a medal. The temptation to quit and go home must have been overwhelming, knowing, when she was still miles away from the stadium, that the ribbon on the line was already broken. But damnit, she crossed the line under her own power. That, ladies and gentleman, is a champion.
I know she was exhausted, I know she was in pain--they all were. But it wasn't pain and exhaustion that brought Paula to a halt... it was a broken heart. It's not a cooincidence that she gave up when the fourth place runner pushed past her and she lost the possiblity of even a bronze medal. Without a medal waiting, she saw no point in continuing.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not unsympathetic. I feel terrible for Paula, but I feel a lot worse for the 15 other women who couldn't finish. Women for whom there was never a realistic hope of a medal, but who showed up anyway, eclipsed by the glory of world-record holders, and gave it their best. I don't know who these women are. There was barely a mention of them in the papers. Unlike Paula, who decided after 36 kilometers that if she couldn't win she didn't want to play at all, these 15 women came armed with only a vague hope of a medal, but a more determined desire to just finish, and were ultimately defeated by the road.
I salute all the athletes who try their best. I especially bow to the last-place finishers, those for whom the temptation to quit is the strongest, and who keep going anyway. Though the offical Athens2004 website names the winner, Mizuki Noguchi of Japan, as the athlete of the day, I would like to take a moment to draw everyone's attention to Luvsanlkhundeg Otgonbayar of Mongolia, the last woman into the Panathinaiko Stadium, who crossed the finish line with a time of 3:48:42, an hour and 22 minutes after the gold had been decided.
I don't know what this woman looks like--she received no television coverage. But I imagine she was plugging along at the tail end of the pack, followed only by slow-moving police vehicles, the drivers of whom were irritated that they had to creep along behind this slowest of runners, possibly even mumbling to themselves that she might as well give up so they could go home and eat dinner. It was dark when Otgonbayar entered the stadium. She was exhaused, she was lonely (I suspect very few of the evening's road-side spectators bothered to hang around that long), and she had no hope of a medal. The temptation to quit and go home must have been overwhelming, knowing, when she was still miles away from the stadium, that the ribbon on the line was already broken. But damnit, she crossed the line under her own power. That, ladies and gentleman, is a champion.
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