Uncategorized – Cynsspace

Hindsight

As I look back and reflect on my last year of not running, and as I think about the emotions that I went through and the steps that I took to repair and heal my hamstring, I hope that my experiences will help another who might be dealing with the same kind of injury.

First and foremost, you know your body better than anyone else. If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. Looking back, I realize that I missed the warning signs. Now, I know that the most prominent signal that something was brewing was the pain that went through my butt every time I sat down. The ischial tuberosity hides under the glutes so, when you sit, the glutes move and you are on your sit bones, or the ischial tuberosities. I always attributed the discomfort that I had while sitting to not having a lot of fat. Similarly, I attributed any tightness or discomfort that I may have had through my hamstrings and butt to finishing a tough run (or race) or to a higher mileage week. Not once did I imagine that my right hamstring was gradually fraying, which resulted in a 50% tear.

Secondly, stay positive. In the past 10 months, I have worked with my family doctor, 2 sports medical doctors, an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, a chiropractor and a few physiotherapists. For the most part, my visits with each of them were positive but there were times when I left feeling down. Some days, anything from a doctor’s silence to a comment such as “That’s unfortunate” or “I hope this will help you” would scare me or send me into tears and leave me wondering “Will I ever be able to run again?” I had to believe that I would heal and that any fitness lost would be regained.

And so I followed my gut. While I knew that my tuberosity would heal, it took months to find the right treatment, primarily because I had to wait almost 4 months for the correct diagnosis. It was my GP, not my sports med doctor, who booked an MRI for me, and that had a 3 month wait. I had just started to run a week before my appointment and thought about cancelling it, but something still seemed off; my gait just didn’t feel right. My son convinced me to follow through with the MRI as it would give me more information about my injury. He was right. The hamstring tear turned out to be deeper than we originally thought. It was the MRI that led to one sports medical doctor’s referral to another who specializes in hips and to a different physiotherapist, one who targeted strengthening the glutes and hamstrings, followed by another who realigned my pelvis. And when the physiotherapists gave me exercises to do, I did them no matter how boring they were or spastic I felt.

During my healing and recovery, I focused on what I could do, not on what I couldn’t. I spent hours each week on my windtrainer so that I could hold onto my cardio; within a 10 month period, I had ridden more than 3000 miles. I worked on my core and upper body while strengthening my hamstrings and glutes by heading to the yoga studio 3-4 times a week (sometimes more). I started swimming again and, by June, I was pool running to start rebuilding the same muscles that I use when I run outside. I set goals that were achievable and I met them almost every single week.

Separating the platelets in the centrifuge.

But it still wasn’t enough. I had done everything that the doctors and physiotherapists had suggested but my right leg just didn’t feel strong whenever I tried to run. So I followed my gut again and went back to the hip specialist, who proceeded with platelet rich plasma (PRP) therapy at the end of June. Ultimately, it was the PRP injection that had the greatest impact on my healing. The doctor had cleared me to run only 3 weeks after the injection, not after the usual 8 week period, and, for the first time in almost a year, my legs felt strong again.

In the past year, the most valuable lesson that I have learned is to listen. I learned how important it is to pay attention to my body, to what feels right and what doesn’t. I listened to my professionals and followed through with their advice. If my gut told me that things still weren’t right, I went back again and again until I found the right form of therapy. I never gave up. Yes, I got frustrated and, yes, sometimes I cried, but I also believed that I would eventually heal and get back to chasing my dreams.

Finding Humour in Self Love

When I first heard the phrase self-care, I thought it referred to things that I do to look after myself: eat properly, get enough sleep, go to the dentist, relax….It wasn’t until recently that I realized that self-care, or self-love, means so much more (see image above). Like you probably are now, I went through the examples under each domain and questioned where I fell in my own self-care. There are many that I do, some fairly regularly and others when I put time aside for them. During the summer months, for example, I commit to “designated service acts.”

One of my annual summer projects is collecting towels and bedding for animal rescues and shelters. Some of the items go to our local humane society; I also collect for a friend who takes things to a farm sanctuary. This summer, another friend of mine was looking for a new home for her old bedding and towels, and I offered to collect them for the farm.

When I went to pick them up, she had not one, but five, garbage bags of linens. I was grateful but, at the same time, I was in a bit of a panic because I didn’t know what to do with them. I was already purging through my own home and had bags of items to go to different organizations; I had no idea where I could put these five. So I texted my farm sanctuary friend.

“I have a lot of donations for you but our house is already a disaster since I’m doing my summer purging. Do you think I can bring them over now? Dave will kill me if I bring more stuff inside.”

Thankfully, the response was “sure” so I headed over. As I pulled into the parking lot, I started giggling. I was moving 5 heavy garbage bags into her apartment building and, truth be told, I hadn’t even looked inside them yet. Maybe there was more than just the towels and bedding inside. What will her neighbours think? Will rumours start? Will little old ladies talk about “those girls” who quietly snuck in heavy bags with “heaven knows what” inside. My imagination went into overdrive.

Before carrying the bags inside, we cautiously opened one of them – just to make sure that it had sheets and towels. Then, we carried the bags inside, trying not to trying not to draw attention to ourselves as we moved them into her apartment. That’s when it hit me. “Carrying 5 garbage bags inside is nothing. Wait until you have to take them back outside,” I said. “That’s going to look even more suspicious. That’s when your neighbours are really going to talk.” And we quietly laughed again. Well, we may have actually snorted a bit because we really did not want anyone to notice us.

On my way home, I thought back to the examples of self love. “Cleaning out (purging) and acts of service (donation)” are easy (usually) to do and make me feel happy. Sharing that time with a friend makes it even better. Unintentionally, I was speaking self-love.

It doesn’t take much to look after yourself. Take a look at the list again and ask yourself “How do you speak self-love?”

Feeling humbled

I like to see myself as a healthy person. During my injury, I have been on my windtrainer for about 100 miles/week and I make it to yoga 3 or 4 times a week. When I am not injured, I am running – a lot and well. I feel strong. I feel fit. But when I get into the water, I am quickly humbled.

I am not a good swimmer and I am finding that frustrating. Years ago, before kids, I was in the water five times a week – slow but able to swim 1600 metres without stopping and strong enough to swim over 5 miles a week. During that time, I taught myself how to breathe bilaterally; during the 20-odd years away from the water, I managed to forget everything that I learned.

Leaving the pool – and sporting the wet look.

So here I am, 55 years old, trying to relearn old tricks. For the most part, I think my strokes are good, but I am slow. With practice, I have figured out bilateral breathing again by slowing down my stroke and focusing on the count: 1, 2, 3 (breathe), 1, 2, 3 (breathe) and so on. Now the crawl is a little easier, and I might even be a smidge faster, but I still feel completely out of shape when I swim from one end of the pool to the next.

I’m trying to stay positive, though. I’m swimming again, and I have swum more in the past 6 months than in the past 20 years. That’s progress. Also, I am intentionally keeping my distance at the low-end for now (500 to 750 metres) while I focus on breathing and skill, and I am getting it – more progress. I still have goals in sight; by the end of the month, I hope to be able to swim 1000 metres and, if things go better, swim more than 100 metres without feeling like my lungs are going to explode.

For me, swimming is hard. But other things have been tough too: running after an break (like pregnancy or an injury), cycling in cleats for the first time, getting into a crow position in yoga. Swimming is just one more challenge to add to my list of things to accomplish; I have done it before and I will do it again. It may take me a while to get to where I want to be, but I will get there.

Platelet-Rich Plasma Therapy

Warning: If you can not handle the sight of blood, you probably won’t want to read this because, yes, you will see some blood.

I really wasn’t sure what to expect when I went to the clinic for my PRP injection. How long will it take? Will it hurt? How long will my recovery be? Will this be my only injection? And, most importantly: will it work?

The “blood-sucker” introduced herself, took me into a room and proceeded to withdraw 30 cc of blood from my arm. “Whoa! That’s a big syringe!” I said when I saw it, and I didn’t look at it again until after she had finished taking my blood. “Wow! That’s really purple!” I had forgotten that blood can look purple too,

One Platelet-Rich Plasma Cocktail in the making.

Dr. Bentley, then, put my blood into the centrifuge to spin it around. It only took seconds to see the blood start to separate into its layers: red blood cells on the bottom, then white bloods cells, and the platelets on top. After a minute, the 30 cc that I had given him had been reduced to much less. After that, I really didn’t see much more as I was getting ready for the injection. I caught of glimpse of what I think was a very long needle (the length of a pencil) as Dr. Bentley filled a syringe with my platelets to inject into my hamstring tendon. I lay on the table, face-down and in a quasi-prone position, trying to relax.

Dr. Bentley poked with his finger at my upper hamstring to find the location of the tear before he started using the ultrasound. I wasn’t able to feel any discomfort at first and that made me nervous. “What if there really isn’t a problem?” I thought, only to be followed by my verbalizing, “That’s where it is.” Dr. Bentley started to use the ultrasound and I heard him say to his student “That’s the tear, right there.” I suddenly felt a bit of assurance.

“Get ready for a poke,” he said and that was all I really felt. At one point, I felt like I was in a dentist’s chair as he asked how I was doing a few times. I was fine. “I’m just telling myself that this isn’t going to hurt that much because my legs are so muscular – ha!” There was no real sensation of pain; it was more of a tightening. I later described it to Dr. Bentley as an elastic tightening around your arm until you have a constant throbbing. He replied that the blood being injected into a tendon has no where else to go so it would create that same kind of feeling. As we finished up, he told me that it would feel like I was sitting on a golf ball for a few days.

On the way home, I was glad that Dave drove me to my appointment. Moving my foot from the pedal to the brake and back to the pedal would have been difficult. We hadn’t even left Hamilton when I said to him “I feel like my leg is having a baby.” Painful, but not terrible, and knowing that it would end with something good.

A few hours later, I was able to drive. I took my 13 year old to referee a soccer game and I happily stood for an hour to watch. Walking was difficult and sitting was impossible, so standing had become the position of choice. I could tell that it was going to be for the few days but I had a feeling that it would be worth it.

Whatever It Takes

A few months ago, I hoped to be running again by mid-June. As good luck (and a lot of patience) allowed, my physiotherapist cleared me to start running slowly. “Run for mechanics,” he said, “not for fitness.” He was telling me not to push myself and to just get use to the motion of running again.

My first run was 2 miles at a 9:30 pace. Within two weeks, I was averaging 3 miles just below an 8:30 pace and, just recently, I have been running up to 4 miles with my average pace around 7:50 per mile and a few miles hovering around 7:40. On paper, everything looks great. I’m running more and I am running faster – and I am being careful not to push myself; I’m running at a “feel good” pace. My gait feels good, my hips feel straight, and I feel strong. But the back of my leg just doesn’t feel right.

As the saying goes “Nobody knows your body better than you” and I can tell that I am still not “fixed.” In April, Dr. Bentley (the hip specialist) wanted me to have my pelvis realigned through physiotherapy and it has definitely helped me. But I still have a tightness at the top of my hamstring, close to the tear where the hamstring meets the ischial tuberosity. Nothing feels wrong, so to speak, but it still doesn’t feel right. I feel like Tammy the Hamstring is lurking at the door, waiting to break in and turn my house upside down. After all of the rest, muscle work, rebuilding, realigning and time I have invested in my recovery, I am ready to do whatever it takes to keep her locked out.

Ready for some time off to heal some more.

I went over my concerns with Dr. Bentley and we decided that a platelet-rich plasma (PRP) injection is the next step for me. I have spent months reading about PRP treatments and there is not a lot of evidence to support its effectiveness. I have spoken with two people who had it done: one said it made things worse, and the other said it didn’t really help. But there is a lot of research that supports PRP therapy. My GP, sports med doctor, chiropractor and 2 different physiotherapists all feel that this is a good route for me to follow; when I have a team of professionals who are rallying a PRP injection, I am going to listen. I really have nothing to lose.

Last night, a lady I know told me of a friend who had a PRP injection done. “Her text right after was full of delightful words,” she said, “but she’s finding that it’s helping.” That was the message that I needed – something positive, something to affirm that I am on the right path. I am ready for the pain and I can deal with a bit of time off – whatever it takes to keep me running and let me keep chasing my dreams.

Using Your Head

In Ontario, cycling with the helmet is the law. Anyone under the age of eighteen who rides any type of bicycle must wear a helmet. But something happens when kids suddenly turn 12 and many feel that they are better than the law, so they leave their helmets at home or ride with their helmets dangling from the handlebars. It annoys me that this has not been legalized for adults as there are many who feel that they are invincible and ride bikes without wearing helmets; ironically, I often see this when they are riding with their children, who are wearing theirs. Whether it is the law or not, every cyclist needs to wear a helmet every single time they mount a bike, no matter how old they are, how far they are going or how fast they are riding.

When my oldest was 4, he rode his bike everywhere – and always with a helmet. This was long before the helmet law that came into effect in 2105 but, with parents who cycle and a dad who also rides a motorcycle, not wearing a helmet simply wasn’t an option. One day, when I watched my speedy son zoom down a 4 year old sized hill, lose his balance and crack his helmet, I was grateful that wearing them was part of our lifestyle.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine, a very experienced cyclist, was riding north of the city, training for an upcoming Ironman competition. The roads were slick that day and, as she crossed a set of train tracks, she lost her balance, slid and hit her head. The damage to her bike was so severe that it needed to be replaced, as did her helmet. She had a concussion but walked away and started training again a few days later. Her helmet saved her.

Why people even think about riding without a helmet is beyond me? Sure, your head might get a little sweaty but wouldn’t you rather have a sweaty head than a crushed skull? Messy hair can be fixed; brains can’t.

Two years ago, one dark Saturday night, I was driving down a particularly poorly lit street to pick up my son at a friend’s. At that last minute, I spotted a couple of boys riding their bikes – no lights, no helmets. My parent instincts took over and I pulled into a parking lot, which I thought they would cut through, got out of my car and waited. When they turned in, I called them over. As it turned out, they were kids from my school, grade 7’s whom I had taught the year before.

“You guys need lights. I could hardly see you. There are parts along that road that are so dark that you could have easily been hit.” Then, I noticed the lack of headwear. “And your helmets need to be on your heads, not on your handlebars.”

They were speechless, but they got it and it wasn’t long before their lights were turned on and helmets were locked into place. Two years later, on their last day of Grade 8, one of them said to me “Thanks for stopping us that night. I always wear my helmet now.”

Yesterday, my own 13 year old left the house wearing his helmet, came back home to change into something warmer and left. Zeda barked at them as they were chatting on the driveway, which drew my attention to them. “Where is your helmet?” I yelled as I ran outside.

“In my room.”

“Go get it. And where is your helmet?” I asked his friend. “I’m pretty sure that you have one too.”

“I don’t have one right now.”

“You don’t have a helmet?” I questioned. I know his mom. He has a helmet.

“It’s at my house.”

“Then you are going to go home to get it and I am going to text your mom that you are on your way.”

And that night both sons were reminded, by their respective moms, that if they are ever caught without a helmet again, they will lose their bike.

Whether young or old, new to bikes or an experienced cyclist, everyone needs to wear a helmet when riding. So be warned: if I see you cycling without one, I will call you out every single time.

Looking for My Pony

Shell-shocked. There is really no other word to describe my reaction after finally seeing the hip specialist in Hamilton. I waited for 3 months to get to the bottom of what was going on with my hamstring – a tear at the insertion of the ischial tuberosity. I waited another three months for a consultation with Dr. Bentley, whom I thought was going to prescribe platelet-rich plasma therapy to strengthen the tendon. I got more and more excited as the days to that appointment got closer; I felt like a 6 year old hoping to find her pony on Christmas morning. But I left his office feeling dejected. There was no pony waiting for me, not even a stuffed toy that could act as a substitute. Instead, I left with a piece of paper: a prescription for more physiotherapy.

During the examination, Dr. Bentley commented, “I don’t think you need an injection. It won’t help you. I think there is something else going on.” Like most runners who have been off longer than they want to be and are desperate for answers and healing, I tried to pry more details out of him. “Let’s finish the examination. Then we can talk.” But the words “won’t help you” kept my mind spinning. So I am that one in ten who PRP injections aren’t suitable for? I wasted all of this time waiting for nothing? Is there no hope of recovery? Will I ever run again?

During our debrief, Dr. Bentley explained that my pelvis is not aligned properly. I have an anterior pelvic tilt, meaning that my right hip sits forward; in doing so, the right hamstring is stretched and that, he believes, it the root of my problem. This also explains the occasional sciatica discomfort that I get, my tight hip flexors and, most visually obvious, the right leg swing when I run. The treatment, Dr. Bentley said, is pelvis realignment through physiotherapy, and he suggested 10 treatments would correct the problem. “Once a week?” I asked. “Oh no,” he said. “You need twice a week.” Between his words, I imagined hearing “Your pelvis is that messed up.”

“And what if this doesn’t help?” I asked. After all, I have gone through the rounds of chiropractic care, physiotherapy and worked with an osteopath, yet I am still considered injured. Dr. Bentley told me to book another appointment if I felt that the treatments don’t help.

It’s taken me almost a month to emotionally recover from his diagnosis and recommendations for treatment. I am angry that I had to wait so long to get to the root, or what seems to be the root, of the problem. I am frustrated that I have had to go to yet another physiotherapist, one who specializes in pelvic realignment, and explain the events of the past 9 months. And I am confused as to why he wouldn’t want to strengthen the tendon when it is going to remain a “less than 50% tear” for the rest of my life (since tendons don’t repair), especially with osteoporosis-arthritis showing in January’s MRI. But, as with all other wounds, time heals and we move on.

On Wednesday, I am starting my fourth week of treatments. Some days, I leave feeling optimistic and ready to start running again; other days, I leave feeling frustrated and wonder whether this will, in fact, let me return to running. There have been good days and bad, laughter and tears, and longing….a longing for good news, a wish for running health….and hope to find that pony with a pink ribbon around its neck.

Stress Test

Last week, after 15 months of heart tests, I was finally given a thumbs-up. Everything is fine.

The fact that doctors thought there was something wrong with my heart was an enigma. In November 2017, days before I was running Nationals cross-country, an 8k distance, I was scheduled for a routine asthma test at the hospital. During one of the baseline tests, the respirologist stopped the test. “We can’t do it,” she said. “Your heart rate isn’t normal.”

I was completely dumbfounded. How was that even possible? At that point in 2017, I had logged almost 2000 miles for the year and I was racing fast enough to call myself a competitive runner.

How could I possibly have something wrong with my heart? But during the baseline test, my heart rate dropped (spiked down, as she said) so that it was dangerous to proceed with the test. After answering what felt like a gazillion questions (Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you workout? What do you do for exercise? and so on) and meeting with a cardiologist, they decided that it was safe for me to continue the asthma test. “It’s okay. There is a cardiologist next door if something goes wrong.”

Over the next 6 months, I had bloodwork, an echocardiogram, and an ultrasound of my heart. In simplest words, results showed that my outtake valve is thinner than my intake valve; the valves, by the way, are only 1mm thick, which I find absolutely remarkable. So running is good for me, but it meant that I needed to be monitored.

This past fall, at another asthma appointment with my respirologist, she asked whether I had been showing any symptoms? “Of what?” I asked. “I really don’t know what I am looking for.” My waking up and gasping for air in the middle of the night could be asthma-related, or it could be a symptom of a heart problem. So could the dizziness that I sometimes have during the day (which is likely attributed to a low heart rate). My doctor wanted to “cross the t’s and dot the i’s) so she referred me to a cardiologist. Continue reading “Stress Test”

Let Them Be Kids

In the past six months, Ontario universities have lost students who took their lives. We can’t begin to wonder why or guess the circumstances. But what we can do is find ways to improve. We, the adults, we need to do better.

The stress that our youth face is no joke. Ten years ago, as a teacher, I saw Grade 8 girls put so much pressure on themselves to get marks as close to 100% as possible that I worried that they might have a breakdown before they even got to high school; that was before the pressures of social media. A few years later, I watched a parent criticize a Grade 8 son for his 80% average because “it isn’t good enough for the top universities.” Yes, he was only in Grade 8. And, as a parent, I have watched my son and his friends devour their books so that they can have the 90% averages needed for university entrance while accumulating hundreds of volunteer hours and working part-time. I have read resumes of university students who make my own – a resume of someone who has been in workforce for over 30 years – look dull.

Today, without meaning to, we have put pressure on kids as young as 12 and 13 to start thinking about their career choices. We expect our kids to be well-behaved, have high marks, play a sport or instrument (and often more than one), volunteer at school or in the community, and, if they are able, work at a part-time job. Every parent wants his/her child to be the best, but is the best right for every single kid? And when exactly do our kids get to be kids?

I often feel that, as parents, we have lost touch with what really matters in our children’s lives. We need to let kids play – not an organized soccer practice or robotics club kind of play, but completely unstructured “run around and be silly with your friends” kind of play. Let them complain about being bored because kids can always find something to do; it may not be what we want them to do, but they’re making their own decisions and, if they get in trouble, so be it. Let them face the consequences and help them to understand and accept those consequences. It’s part of growing up. So is failure. By all means, we need to support our children at school so help them with their homework – if they ask for it – but don’t do it for them. And if they don’t get the mark that everyone wanted on a test or assignment, let it go. We need to stop helicoptering around our kids and rescuing them every time things don’t go they way we want. We need to let them fail if we want them to succeed. With our support and encouragement from their teachers and other adults in their lives, our kids will figure it out.

This is what builds resilience in our kids: being independent, making their own mistakes, failing, and using each day to try something new. Resilience is most definitely not gained from larger class sizes. If that happens, we will have taken away time from the second-most important group of people who interact with our children: their teachers. (And let’s be real about this: there are many kids who see their teachers more than their parents.) Increasing class sizes increases the demands and the pressures that we are placing on our youth. The failure that is bound to happen comes from our government’s decision to increase class sizes and, since that decision is not our youth’s control, it is only going to lead to greater stress for our kids through high school and more urgent feelings from their parents who will feel an even greater need to hover around them, protect them and help them get through high school.

As mental health is becoming, if it is not already, a crisis among young adults, whether in the work force or at school, we – the parents, the teachers, the coaches – must prepare our students for this step in their lives. But we do that through the connections that we have for our youth, through our care and understanding of who they are and what they need to succeed. We do not build resilience by creating larger class sizes where kids – yes, kids – become one of too many to teach and get to know. But we can build resilience by letting kids be kids and enjoy their high school years. We build resilience by spending time with them, guiding them and allowing them to see that they have our support, the support that they will carry into the next stage of their lives.

Do I Laugh or Cry?

“There is value in learning to accept gracefully those things that cannot be changed.”

This were the first words that I read in my son’s psychology text on the weekend. He had rushed off to work and left his book on the kitchen table, open to a section on anger and frustration. Being a psych major, I couldn’t help but look at what he was studying and, somewhat appropriately, these words jumped out at me.

The past few months have been a test of my mental strength. How much frustration and disappointment of being injured (July), re-injured (October) and learning that it was way worse than anyone originally thought (January) can I handle? I like to think of myself as a positive person, one who looks for an upside, thinks happy thoughts and believes that “things happen for a reason.” The upside of my hamstring tear is it has given me more time at home with my 13 year old and let me watch him grow as a student, an athlete, and a person. But I am now in my sixth month of healing, almost 3 seasons later, and while I have accepted my injury, my frustration is still there.

I had a glimmer of hope that my weeks of being side-lined are coming to an end when I finally got an appointment date for a PRP injection: April 16th @ 12:00PM DURING HIS LUNCH. I had no idea what was meant by “during his lunch.” Am I suppose to feel extra grateful that he is seeing me at 12:00 rather than make me wait another week or two? Is this a underlying message that I better not be late? Or he is so busy that he is likely to be behind and I better not dare complain because he is seeing me “during his lunch.” Or maybe, just maybe, it is a subtle hint to bring him a coffee, a snack or even a lunch. Well, I am grateful that he is seeing me at this time rather than have me wait for another appointment at a later date so I happily confirmed it, I won’t complain if he is behind and maybe, just maybe, I’ll stop at Tim’s to bring him a snack. I could only laugh.

However, when I called to confirm, I learned that this is not my appointment for the injection; it is a consultation. Since 1 in 10 people are turned away, I have to meet with the doctor first and go in later for the actual injection. I wanted to cry. If my injection is at the end of April, I can assume that I will be off for another 6 to 8 weeks, which means that I still won’t be running until the end of June. And that is only if I need one PRP shot. If I need another, it will obviously be even longer.

This whole process has been frustrating beyond belief and it is now being overshadowed but the occasional fear. What if I am that one in ten? What if I can’t run again. What if? What if? I hate the “what if?” game. “Stay positive. Look for the upside,” I tell myself.

Last night after yoga, I spoke my about thoughts with Kelly-Lynne and I found the positive again. I realized how much fitter I have become in the past 6 months. My leg strength is coming back; I can feel it when I cycle, and I can sit for longer periods of time without being in pain. My core is firm, I can do a lowboat again and my upper body is stronger than it has been in years. I threw myself back into the deep end when I came out of my comfort zone and started swimming. When all things are said and done, I feel like I am in better shape than I have been in years. So even though I still am not running and am quite unhappy about it, I can accept the delay. If it means that my hamstrings are going to be that much stronger and I am going to be that much healthier, then I can absolutely wait a few more weeks.

Many years ago, when making a group decision at work, we voted for acceptance. “Can you live with it?” was the question asked. At school, I teach my students that you don’t have to always like something, but you have to be able to accept it; my Grade 7’s understand that. Well, I do not like this time to heal and this waiting game one little bit, but I can live with it. I have accepted it and, one day, I hope, that will make me a better athlete.