the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

*sigh*

I'm injured again. And this time, I didn't do anything. Seriously. 

I've been very proud of myself. Since that unfortunate concussion and broken neck incident in February, I've worked hard to improve my habits. I quit drinking. I eat better. I've lost a few pounds. My attitude has improved. Based on a comment my therapist made a while back, I even quit taking anti-depressants. I've been making a go at a healthy, medication-free life. It hasn't been all roses, but life isn't that way anyway. I'm pleased and encouraged by my progress.  

One thing I've been looking forward to, since before my accident, is running. After my last knee surgery in the spring of '09, my doctor told me that he wouldn't forbid me to run because he knew I would anyway, but if I kept running, I wouldn't be able to walk by the time I was 55. I took the hint, but I've never been happy about it. Then in early February, I learned about gel knee injections. It's now possible for people with ruined knees to run again thanks to this techology. An orthopedic surgeon told me that I could probably get these injections; I'd just need to run again until my knees hurt like before (so he'd know how to treat them). 

You can imagine, then, how excited I was to get back to the sort of health that would allow me to run. I'm not greedy, either. I don't have to do five miles a day ever again. I'd be happy to work up to a slow trot of, say, three miles, maybe three times a week. Running doesn't just make me healthier, it makes me happier. It is my ultimate antidepressant. 

So about three weeks ago, I began running again (!). I'm in poor enough shape that I cannot yet run enough to make my knees hurt, but I have to start somewhere. Truthfully, I have no pride. None. I was happy to be out in the morning air, trotting and walking, trotting and walking--for a mile. On the second day, I added a few pushups and situps. 

On the fourth day, I pulled or tore a muscle in my right calf. (I don't know which; I didn't take it to the doctor.) If you've ever done this, though, you know it hurts pretty good. I hobbled home and spent the next few days icing it and elevating it and taking antiinflammatories. I babied it. This week, it had become little more than an uncomfortable knot in my calf (about midway down and deep--in the soleus, not the gastrocnemius). I'd quit limping, and was looking forward to being able to go for walks again soon. The plan was to start back tomorrow morning. 

Meanwhile, the weather has been wicked soggy. We've had regular afternoon thunderstorms, so the yard is out of control, too. All of this hasn't been helping my depression: limited exercise, limited sunshine, and the house looks abandoned. Thus it was that this morning, I decided to go work on the yard for a bit before I went to work.*

* I've been working with the basic cadets during their training this summer and work late on Friday nights, so I go in a bit later. 

I worked with the weedeater for a while, then walked back across the yard to put it away. I stepped down off a land shelf (about 2.5 feet), and...that's it. I just stepped down. 

I landed on my right leg. Something in my calf burned and snapped like a rotten rubber band. I felt a violent twitch deep in the muscle. 

I dropped to the ground screaming. As y'all know, I'm fond of colorful words--but none came out. I just screamed. After a couple of minutes, I cut out the sound and sat holding my leg and breathing hard. The muscle, unmoored, jumped and trembled and burned. 

When the initial pain abated enough, I stood up using my one good leg, then limped around on my heel, putting everything away. I wondered how I was going to get to the clinic to have my leg looked at. Mich was at work. I probably couldn't drive (my truck is a standard), but I didn't want to have to call an ambulance, either. Furthermore, I was covered with sweat and grit. By now, it was abundantly clear that my foot didn't work. 

The first thing I did was take a shower.* No kidding. I knew I was going to the doc and would spend the afternoon somewhere antiseptic and my first priority was to clean off the ick so I could stand to be around me. 

* I've made jokes about our shower having a bench in it "in case you get tired and need to take a break." No more. 

Next, I tried to get an appointment with urgent care at the Academy clinic, to no avail. I ended up calling Mich, who was on this side of town, at least. She fetched and ferried me to the nearest emergency room. The PA poked and squeezed my leg, trying to get a better idea of where my injury was, but couldn't narrow it down. All he determined for certain was that I desperately needed painkillers.  

The doctor came in, looked it over, and told me I needed a specialist. He guesses it's a partial Achilles tendon rupture (he thinks I've torn one of the two heads), but he said X-rays wouldn't help right now because of the swelling. So...I've been released on bail pending a trial. 

I mean, I was released with a prescription, a splint, and orders to follow up with my doctor ASAP (and from thence, a specialist). Meanwhile, I'm to stay off of it, keep it elevated, and ice it. 

A few years ago, a friend of mine had to have emergency surgery because he tore his knee in his sleep. We laughed and nudged each other over that, of course, but... (again,) no more. I'm officially at the age where I can step off a ledge--do no more than take a big step, actually--and break a muscle. 

I'd be lying if I said this didn't scare me. 

d