Cynsspace

The Butt-nut

Since I have been injured, one of the hardest things to do (aside from running, which is still impossible) is driving. My sitbone being crushed into the car seat can send an excruciating pain through my body. But, unlike running, as a working mom with busy kids, I can’t just say “I’m not driving today.” As the expression goes, I have places to go and things to do.

Last weekend, my son and his friends went to Wonderland for the Halloween Haunt and I won the task of driving them home. That same afternoon, as I made a shorter 20 minute trip to Burlington and whined to myself about the havoc that Tammy the Hamstring was still causing, I started to think of supports and devices that might ease the agony of sitting in a car. I lifted my butt, shifted positions, lifted my cheek again and had a “Eureka!” moment. “I need a donut to lift my butt and surround the sit-bone so that it doesn’t dig into the car seat!”

After dinner, before venturing to Wonderland, I began my DIY butt-nut project. I ripped strips of fabric from an old pillowcase, wound them into a donut shape, fastened it with duct tape and created my prototype.
Dave could only laugh and walk away when I demonstrated how to use it properly. But I was proud; my butt-nut felt good and seemed like it would help me survive the 60 minute drive. The real test was about to happen.

In the car, it took a while for me to find the exact spot for my creation, and I did have to readjust it every now and then. I waited for the 13 year old boy comments about it when my kiddo and his friends got in the car; what teen boy wouldn’t turn “butt-nut” into something? But, instead, I got “That’s awesome!” or “You can go on Dragon’s Den and sell these! You can retire!” If I can impress a crowd of critical teens with these, maybe I have come up with the next great Canadian invention.

When I got home, after a total of 2 1/2 hours of driving, I felt surprisingly good. I was sore, yes, but no more sore than I was when I got in the car. In fact, I felt the best after driving that I have in a long, long time.

So remember: you read about it here first. The butt-nut, a donut with duct tape, personally fitted, designed for comfort. What could be more Canadian?

Moving Forward

The marathon can be one of the most frustrating road events. I love the distance, the training that goes into it and the satisfaction from finishing. For the first time in many years, I changed my focus in this last training cycle from a time goal to simply finishing. I took on the “whatever it takes attitude” and I was winning. I was ready. Then the tides turned on me and derailed me during taper week, days before the Chicago marathon. Even then, I made it to the start and felt I could finish, albeit slowly. Instead, I finished one mile – one lousy mile.

I didn’t fail, but I didn’t do what I set out to do. Was I upset? Absolutely, and I was angry too, angry about the wasted time, effort and cost (in physio, chiropractic and osteo treatments). But I got over it, and now I move on.

Before I can do that, though, I have to get to the route of the problem. My hip buckled under me when I ran during taper week, and it did again on Sunday morning. This hasn’t happened before and it has become a cause for concern. Tammy the Hamstring may be playing her games again and partying it up with her friends, but my chiro suggested an x-ray to make sure that there isn’t a fracture.

On Friday night, Dave and I went to the hospital to learn that there isn’t an obvious fracture. The doctor suggested Advil (3 times a day), physiotherapy and a bone scan. (Why do doctors always recommend nothing but Advil and physiotherapy?). On Saturday morning, my chiro agreed that I should have a bone scan to look for a possible stress fracture. “With your high mileage, age, and frame,” he said, “I think it is a good idea.”

So now I wait. I have an appointment with my GP on the 23rd and will, hopefully, get some imaging done a week later. It’s frustrating as that means I probably won’t get results until a month after the first buckle.

In the meantime, I can continue to strengthen my muscles, try to get back on my bike and maybe, just maybe, get back into the pool. I may not be able to run, but I can take advantage of the time off running to do other things that I love, as well as focus on what I can do and work towards improvement.

Chiropractic Care and Running Injuries

I use to have a chiropractor who helped me with running aches and pains, usually my left SI joint or my right hamstring. When I had trouble with my back three years ago, though, he wasn’t able to help me at all; yet, he kept wanting me to go back for treatments. I turned to a physiotherapist who had a different approach and it ended up being the right one. I never did go back to that chiropractor.

This summer, I went through the reverse when Tammy the Hamstring acted up. I started with physiotherapy which just didn’t seem to be making any difference in how I felt. I called a friend to ask for her acupuncturist’s name, but she suggested that I see her chiropractor. “He’s really good,” she said. He knows muscles too.” So I took his name, googled him, read that he specializes in running and hockey injuries and had treated some high profile athletes including an Olympian sprinter. I picked up the phone and made an appointment to see him that week.

That Friday, Sandy treated me and gave me orders to run over the weekend, with a long warm-up and a gazillion lunges. And, since the run/walk combination had been too painful, he told me to just run very slowly. After my third visit with Sandy, my husband decided that he would run with me that night but he watched while I did my 6 sets of 60 lunges.

On the run home, Dave exclaimed, “Your form has completely changed!” I waited for the negative comments to follow, about how sore and lop-sided I looked, but instead he said, “It’s unbelievable! You are completely symmetrical! You’ve lost your funny kick. It’s absolutely incredible! Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

“Even though I am so slow?” I asked.

“You look great! It’s unreal!”

My husband is not one to hand out compliments, so I was shocked by his enthusiasm and support, as well as blown away by the almost instantaneous change that resulted from just a few chiropractic treatments. It was clear that this was the right therapy for me.

In the past week, I have had a setback, but Sandy’s treatments and fitness plan for me have been effective. I am in this for the long haul and am going to do whatever it takes to heal. Between Sandy and my coach, I know that I will be able to come back stronger and faster than before.

To anyone with an injury, this is my advice: don’t fixate on one type of treatment. What worked before may not another time so it is important to be open to new ideas. I went in for my first visit with a “let’s see how it goes” attitude and, to my surprise, it was the right solution. While I feel like I am back at square one, I have every confidence that chiropractic care will help me get to where I want to be.

Bravery

Many years ago, I told my youngest that he was brave. In his little boy mind, he didn’t understand so I explained that being brave means that you do something that you don’t want to do.

Yesterday, those words flew back to me when my friend, Wendy, posted that I was brave to stop running. I had thought my decision was tough, hard, smart and even courageous, but not once did I think of it as being brave. I know this seems odd when bravery and courage are synonyms, but “brave” is just that much more of a powerful word.

I thought back to that conversation I had with my youngest: being brave means doing something that you don’t want to do. I spent the past three months determined to start yesterday’s race and, in the past six weeks, I rebuilt my strength and endurance to start and finish. I was excited but also cautious that Tammy the Hamstring could make a reappearance. Sure enough, she did – and at the twelfth hour – but she also settled down enough to make me believe that I could run 26.2 miles.

Before the start of the Chicago Marathon

Yesterday, I was on my guard as I started the marathon and, barely ten minutes in, I stepped aside. I got on the sidewalk and I held myself together while I worked my way back to the hotel. Feeling like a failure, I didn’t want any attention but, ironically, I was upset that not one of the hundreds of spectators I saw asked if I was okay. I wanted to cry, but I had to be brave.

Wendy’s words helped me to realize that bravery was a huge part of this journey. I did what I had to do, not what I wanted to do. I am 55 and want to be running and racing competitively for many more. As I reflect on the past few months and set goals for the future, I know that there are going to be other tough decisions to make and I am prepared to face them.

It Just Wasn’t Meant To Be

Weeks ago, I took on the “whatever it takes attitude” in the hope that I would be able to toe the line at the Chicago Marathon. I saw an osteopath who worked some magic. I spent time with an acupuncturist who lessened the pain and improved the circulation in my glutes and hamstring. And I found a chiropractor who is a gift to runners.

Within weeks, my Chiro got me running from 2 miles a week at the end of August to ending my training with 40+ mile weeks. When I first saw him, it hurt to walk. Last Sunday, and the one before, I ran 18 miles relatively painfree. I had put in the time running, stretching, and strengthening, and I was ready for Chicago – not for a fast time but to finish what I started.

But you can’t underestimate the power of the marathon. During the final days of my taper, Tammy the Hamstring came back to visit and she was angry. On Wednesday night, Kelly-Lynne and I went out for an easy 6 mile run and, half-way through, I felt like my back thigh was bleeding internally. A bit later, I thought a knife ripped through my piriformis. Minutes later, Kelly-Lynne and I walked Tammy back home, with me holding back tears.

After two more visits to the chiropractor, who felt I was just having a muscle spasm, and an acupuncture treatment, all I could do was hold my breath and hope that I would be able to run. Tammy needed to settle down.

By last night, I felt much better. My leg had loosened up, and I made the decision to run slowly for the first six miles of today’s marathon and take it from there. I felt confident that I was going to be able to finish.

So this morning, I left my sleeping husband and boys at the hotel at 6:00 as I walked to the start. Tammy the Hamstring felt relaxed; she was back under control. At 8:00, we started to move to the start line and began our marathon. But just past the one mile point, I felt a twinge. Tammy had resurfaced.

It was only a few minutes longer before I realized that I wasn’t going to finish. I was prepared to walk the back end of the course but not 25 miles, and I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to run. So I called it a day.

It took almost an hour to get back to the hotel because of the road closures, and I watched runners and walkers of different sizes and speeds pass me. That was hard. I wondered whether I made the right decision until I hobbled back into the hotel lobby. It was clear that I made the best choice.

A nap, a snack and a lot of tears later, I am comfortable with my decision. I gave Chicago my best shot but finishing today just wasn’t in the cards. For whatever reason, this just wasn’t meant to be.

I am grateful for the optimism of my youngest who said, “Ya, but we’re in Chicago. At least, we get a holiday together.” And he is right. It is Canada’s Thanksgiving and I am thankful to be here with my husband and boys. In the end, this time together is what matters the most.

Running and Parenting (and Finding My Poop Peeps)

Gastro-intestinal distress. It’s a secret ailment that most runners share and, like childbirth, unless you have experienced it, you really don’t know what it is all about. Well, for those of you who have been fortunate enough to escape the horrors of GI distress, running means that you are pounding your body’s weight into the ground, which also means that you’re shaking up the contents of your stomach. The longer the distance you run, the more everything breaks apart. As everything loosens, it easily passes through your intestinal tract and, sometimes, faster than expected, leaving runners desperately seeking a bathroom, porta-potty or tall grass. If you aren’t careful, GI distress can be an absolute disaster.

When I run with friends, no one ever argues if someone needs a bathroom; we’ve all been in that situation. And no one ever complains about the wait. In fact, none of my friends really talk about GI distress at all – except Kelly-Lynne. A few months ago, she complained about eating the wrong foods at work so, twenty-five minutes into our evening run, we had to stop for a bathroom. This time, it was me who was waiting for her, which was so unusual that I teased her about it, and we somehow ended up talking about poop for the rest of the run. By the time we finished, I asked, “Do you realize that we just spent the last 30 minutes talking about poop? How many girls talk about poop? That is unheard of!” Finally, I had found a poop peep.

Years ago, my conversations about poop were limited to other moms who had to deal with the horrors of poopy diapers and poop that finds its way up a baby’s back and into every crevice of the body, places that I never would have imagined poop could crawl into until I had my own boys, poop that was so gross that Dave would jump to walk the dog on the coldest days of winter to avoid the dreaded diaper change. But Kelly-Lynne is my first real poop peep, someone to share my greatest pre-race fears: not emptying my gut before the start, getting caught mid-race needing a porta-potty and wondering whether I can ‘hang on’ until the end.

Last night, Tammy the Hamstring derailed my plans to take my youngest and his three friends to the Blue Jays game. I knew that Tammy wouldn’t want to sit at the game for 2 hours or more, and she would end up complaining about the train trip in and out of the city as well. When Dave came to the rescue and agreed to take the boys, the other moms (Susan and Anna) were equally grateful and asked me to thank him. “He still owes me,” I messaged. “I’d rather take 4 boys to a baseball game than spend all those years changing poopy diapers. He got off easy.” Somehow the discussion changed to the joys of teen boys and plunging toilets of their superhuman feats bobbing inside. Within minutes, I realized that I had found more poop peeps.

Susan and Anna are not just poop peeps, though. They are peeps with strategies, mom hacks that are so brilliant that they make bathing a skunky dog with Vagisil seem banal, strategies that include using laxatives to break down the most frightening of exhibits or pouring Restoralax (and, yes, you can buy it in bulk at Costco) into the toilet bowl to loosen things. A Restoralax/Gatorade concoction, they tell me, moves things along quite nicely. Gatorade in the toilet? Who knew?!

Everyone needs a poop peep, especially if you are a runner, a mom or a running mom. My network feels complete but there is always room for more.

Taming Tammy

Taking two weeks off running was completely my idea. I needed to remove the pressure of trying to run and to train for Chicago. I needed to focus on healing. At the time, I honestly didn’t know if it was a good idea or not, and I still don’t, but it gave me the break that I needed. It gave me the time to accept that Chicago will not be the marathon that I want it to be; once that happened, my frustration disappeared.

But taking the time off was still hard even though I walked Zeda, I spun my wheel on my windtrainer (because I didn’t trust that riding up and down hills in the great outdoors would be good for Tammy the Hamstring), and I went to yoga. I survived the first week without running but, by Day 10, I was getting antsy. “Four more days will not make a difference” I told myself. By Day 14, I was quite excited – one more day. It no longer hurt when I walk, my stability was back and I felt stronger, but I didn’t know if the time off would help my running.

I decided to test the trails on Saturday afternoon instead of in the morning as I felt my body would be more awake and Tammy would be less of a nuisance. I knew that I had to do 2’s and 1’s, and slowly. My osteopath also gave me some exercises to do before and after: hip rotations (like using a hula hoop), opening and closing the gates, and leg swings (forwards and sideways). I could hear my hip popping during the first set, which made me nervous, but I stuck to the plan: go out slowly, on a soft surface, 2 minutes on, 1 minute off, aim for a mile.

When I left the house, I was able to run along a straight plane but I had trouble manoeuvring corners and turns, even at a 9/10 minute mile pace. I almost quit and went back home. “Stick to the plan.” After 3 sets of 2’s and 1’s, I could feel that my hips had loosened up and I was moving more easily. After 6 sets, I was able to turn the same corner that I couldn’t get around before. Success! Then I went through my exercises at home for another 20 minutes. In the end, I spent more time warming up and cooling down/stretching than I actually did running, but it really didn’t matter because I ran!

Today, I went through the same routine but ran on a mix of surfaces – grass, gravel path, road – and for a bit longer. As on Saturday, I finished feeling good about running, but Tammy was still a pain in the butt – not as much of a pain as she was before, but still a nuisance. As my osteopath explained, there is scar tissue surrounding Tammy that has formed a rope and it needs to be loosened. When Tammy complains to my brain that she is sore, my body reacts by tightening up even more to protect her. But my joints and bones are healthy, my tendons are strong, and there is lots of fluid flowing through my veins. So I need to run – slowly and carefully – to start breaking up the scar tissue, to tame Tammy and to send the message to my brain that I am not broken; I am strong.

What does this mean in terms of the Chicago Marathon? I have no idea. I will be there and I will be running. I don’t know how far or how fast but I do know it will be with Tammy, and she will be on a very short leash.

We Girls Stick Together

My husband and I started actively planning for our second fur-baby two summers ago. We had put down our 14 year old a few years earlier and it took Dave that long to be ready to have another; he was home during the day and needed an excuse to get out; he was ready to look after 4 paws again.

Zeda at 14 months, a week after bringing her home.

We had a few things that we hoped for in our dog: good with kids, a rescue, a larger breed (e.g. lab, retriever), short hair, young enough to still be a puppy but old enough to be house-broken, and female (believing that a female would be a somewhat quieter dog). After a few months of searching, we found 14 month old Zeda through Grand River All Breed Rescue (based in Cambridge, Ontario) and brought her home.

She is always excited when we start to run.

Today, Zeda turned three and she has been everything on our list, everything but quiet. She is a bundle of energy who needs to be walked a lot. Zeda is always super excited when I pull my running clothes out of my dresser because she thinks she gets to go for a run; sometimes she gets to come with me. When I get home from work, she bolts down the stairs, sometimes barking, tail wagging, and trying hard not to jump, making me think that I am the most important person in her life. This summer, I feel like I have become that person for her.

I am learning to admire the gardens when we walk.

During the school year, Dave does 90% of the walks because he has more time than I do. But since I am home through the summer, Zeda becomes my girl. To her good fortune, I have had that much more time to spend with her this summer because I haven’t been running; walking has been my way of getting outdoors. I honestly don’t think that I would enjoy my daily walks on my own. Zeda has given me the motivation that I need to get out the door, and I have given her the exercise, love and attention that she needs. Somewhere in the past three weeks, walking has stopped being a chore or a labour of love; it’s something that I have started to really enjoy with her.

Today, Zeda turned three. We enjoyed our morning walk, playtime in the yard, and cuddles, and we have our evening 5K to look forward to. She has become my guard dog (anyone who comes to visit can attest to that), my walking buddy, my companion and my best friend. She is still the same bundle of energy that we brought home two years ago, but I wouldn’t want her any other way.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

I cried today. It has been the first time I cried since my training for Chicago has been sidelined. Heck, it is the first time that I have cried in I don’t know how long. But I do know that since Tammy started acting up, the uncertainty of whether I will be able to run the Chicago Marathon has left me feeling blue. Last week, I only ran on Monday, when I realized that Tammy the Hamstring needed attention, so I turned to yoga and spinning on my wind trainer for the rest of the week. The rest helped; I noticed that the range of motion in my right leg improved over the seven days as did my strength and balance.

This past Monday, I was cleared by my physiotherapist to try some shorter distances so I ran 3 miles that afternoon. Tammy was still tight, but she wasn’t sore like she was the week before and I felt fine the next day. On Wednesday, I was starting to feel normal; my hips felt like they were opening up again and I seemed to be walking properly. At my physio appointment the next morning, I was told that the puffiness on the back of my thigh was down and the weird bruising, which started to surface when we taped my leg the week before, was disappearing. Things seemed to be progressing and I was encouraged, so I ran again on Thursday night; this time I covered 4 miles.

This morning, everything changed. I headed out for an easy 3 mile run and Tammy decided to start kicking me in the butt. At the one mile mark, I stopped my watch, walked home and cried. I have been doing everything right: my exercises, my warm-ups, rest, sleep, physio…but it hasn’t been enough for Tammy. She obviously needs more time.

Today was the first time that I have cried since my training for Chicago came to a halt. In the past two weeks, I have played the “what if” scenarios, including not starting. I have toyed with the idea of walking the 26.2 miles but that is not what I set out to do; I want to run the course, not walk it. I have thought about running part of the course and walking the rest, which I would be okay with if that becomes the plan, and I’ve considered running part and dropping out. But not once during the “what if” games that my mind played did I cry. Until today.

This afternoon, I decided that I am not going to run until Tammy is in better shape. I feel that my trying to run is like playing Russian Roulette; how much more can I push Tammy until she has had enough and really bites me in the butt? I looked into pool running as a way to supplement my training and was ready to buy a belt, but I don’t want to pool run. When I put things in perspective, I reminded myself that running Chicago is suppose to be fun, so I don’t need to torture myself with things that I don’t want to do. Instead, I will continue to ride on my wind trainer and go to yoga; I’m even willing to start swimming again. If I don’t start in Chicago, so be it. There is always another marathon. As I walked with my youngest in the late afternoon and felt Tammy’s presence again, I realized that taking a step back like this is the best thing for me.

I am trying to stay positive but there will likely be more tears between now and October 7th while I figure out what exactly Tammy has planned for me. Who knows? Maybe I will be able to pull a miracle out of my butt and I’ll be able to chase my dreams sooner than I think. Only time can tell.

A Most Unfortunate Side Effect of Not Running

During the first few days of dealing with my hamstring (now named Tammy the Hamstring. Why not name your hamstring?), it hurt to walk but it was Zeda who really suffered. Gone were our morning walks; our 5K afternoon walks were also put on hold until I felt more mobile. In the mornings, I let Zeda out in the backyard, fed her and watched her sulk until one of the boys woke up and could take her around the block.

On Friday morning, Zeda went outside, roamed the yard and visited her usual spots. She found a stick to chew, mud to dig into and a skunk to play with. Well, somebody forgot to tell the skunk that Zeda just wanted to play. The backyard reeked. It was so bad that I initially couldn’t tell if it was the yard or her that smelled. I called Zeda and did the sniff test; Dave smelled her too. We agreed that it must have been the neighbour’s dog that got skunked because she didn’t smell all that stinky…until she had been inside for about 10 minutes. I heard bedroom doors suddenly slam shut. It was obvious that our Zeda had been skunked.

Zeda and I headed back outside to bathe her. Dave bought a skunk shampoo a few months ago – the “just in case” purchase that makes perfect sense after 3 previous late night skunkings with Chase, our previous fur-baby. Zeda had a 45 minute bath with 3 shampoos and rinses. The next day, Dave washed her again. The smell still lingered.

While he walked her that afternoon, a fellow dog-parent told Dave, “Do you know what really works? A female douche. (Is there any other kind?) It’s full of chemicals and takes the smell out.” So, when Dave got home, he asked me to pick up a “female douche.”

“A what???”

“It’s suppose to work. So if you’ll get one, I’ll help you with it.”

“You want me to go to the drug store to get a douche shampoo? I know kids who work at there. There is always one of my former students on cash on Saturdays. They’ll talk… or start a rumour.” Dave looked at me and repeated, “I’ll help you. Get the product: a female douche. This is out of my territory.”

Obviously. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. It was bad enough that Zeda got hit by a skunk because Tammy was being a pain in the butt and making it difficult for me to walk. But now I had to go to the drug store to pick up a douche shampoo. I toyed with the idea of driving to the other end of town where no one would know me, but I pulled on my big girl shorts and headed to my local Shoppers.

I honestly didn’t know what to get for Zeda. “Do I buy the $4.99 one or the $24.99? Okay, let’s eliminate the ones with applicators. We don’t want gels. Hmmm…lemon coconut…maybe scented would be nice. Nope, let’s get that one; it looks like Johnson’s baby shampoo.” So I picked up a bottle of Vagisil and bee-lined for the cashier, paid for the shampoo, walked out of the store – without even asking for a bag! – and prayed that I wouldn’t walk into somebody I know.

When I got home, Dave was ready. He rinsed Zeda’s coat and I washed her again: over her head, covering her mouth, around her eyes and in the nostrils. Suddenly, a purchase with an applicator made a lot of sense. We let everything soak in her, rinsed her off and, as we did, we could smell the stench being pulled from her. We repeated the process and, during Zeda’s second scrubbing, I asked, “Who thought of this anyway?”

“The guy I ran into while walking her.”

“No, who originally thought of this? Why would someone use a douche shampoo on a dog? Whatever would possess them to think of that?”

And that remains a mystery. At first, I thought that a genius idea like that had to be a woman’s. Then, I thought it came from a guy who panicked when his dog was sprayed, ran into the bathroom to get some soap and grabbed the wrong bottle. I’m surprised that something so effective did not end up on the list of “accidental inventions” or a DIY life hack video.

As we cleaned up, I said to Dave, “I’ll leave the Vagisil here with her other shampoos. It will be a conversation piece.” I carefully placed the bottle on the toolbox next to his workbench and retreated to the safety of my kitchen. Then, I added Vagisil to my list for my next trip to the drug store.