Argh.

Well, not only can I not run, but I basically still can’t walk for more than a few minutes at a time. Massage (myofascial and self) both offer temporary relief. But when I say temporary, I mean until I try to walk for more than about five minutes again.

Saturday will mark two weeks with this condition, with no real improvement. I’ve learned also that I can’t do any stretches or strengthening exercises that directly impact the problem area (discreet sections of my right ass, hip, iliotibial band and upper hamstring). Also, if I ride the stationary bike, while it makes me feel that I’m doing something productive, it fucks me up royally.

My orthopedist is back in on Tuesday. I’ll try to get in to see him then. In the meantime, I’ve got one more myo session before Sandra heads out of town. It has done something in that the pain has moved from its original locus (so something’s changed), and I now get to live nearly pain-free until I try to leave the house and do anything, whereas before the pain was ever-present, although mild. I’ll take the next few days to document this thing’s behavior so I communicate it clearly to help with a diagnosis.

Adding to this misery is the fact that Jonathan went out for a 4.5 mile run and three miles into it suffered what I can only describe as a catastrophic failure of his left foot. This foot has hobbled him for two months, but it seemed better. In minutes, he went from a twinge to being the opposite of Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot. It’s funny, but while he was out running I was sitting there working, noting that he’d been gone for well over an hour, and thinking, “Maybe he’s having a great run and decided to go farther.” I relished the idea of him bounding happily up to Scarsdale — or even Hartsdale. But I knew better, because my follow-up thought was, “If he’s not back in 20 minutes I need to get in the car and  go look for him.” It seems he was hopping home at the time already.

So, I’m not sure we can get any more pathetic than this. I headed out for a white-knuckled shopping trip yesterday, returning home with great regret at having ventured out (but happy to have milk again). Now he’s able to walk somewhat normally, and so will assume domestic duties.

Argh.

Argh. Argh. Argh.

I’ve got it all: vitamins, massage tools, strengthening regimens and accessories, homeopathic remedies and tinctures, anti-inflammatories, bags of ice and painkillers. They all help temporarily, but every day, eventually, I’m back to square one the moment I try to function like a normal human being. The last time I felt this hopeless and helpless was during the economic downturn of 2001, when I could not find work for close to a year. I knew it would eventually get better. But I didn’t know when or how. It’s not even been two weeks with this. How do people with chronic pain deal with it?

Boo hoo.

What makes me most crazy about all this is that I don’t feel, as a runner, that I’ve caught a break in two years. And my race and training times reflect this. Something has always happened to derail things. I start to make some progress, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of what I might be able to accomplish…and then I’m suddenly fucked for weeks or months with one thing or another.

Why am I bothering? My only answer is that it’s because I’ve gotten that glimpse, right before it faded into the oblivion of exhaustion or injury.

Yes, fine, I’ll run in a fucking pool. I’ll hobble around this weekend and find somewhere to go and try not to rip the head off of the poor facility guide assigned to show me around. But running and training are kind of the least of it at this point. I would be happy just to walk again.

I am not in a pleasant mood.

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