It's an oxymoron when stripped down. Two dissimilar things to make up an understood phrase. That's how I understand oxymoron at least. A storm is dangerous. It's threatening, blustery, and unpredictable. Despite the idea that it's often forcasted ahead of time, its presence is heavy nonetheless. Perfect. Well perfect is perfect. It's unattainable, but pretty and packaged and nice. So a pretty, packaged, nice descriptor for a blustery, unpredictable, and dangerous phenomenon is a bit off. Yet we get it. A perfect storm is just that. A packaged disaster.
That's how my Physical Therapist described my recovery today.
Today was the first time I felt legitimately concerned about my health when it comes to my knee. I'm 4 months out. Remember what that means? Running. Progress. Success.
Not exactly.
As the ironic and unforgiving ACL gods would have it, I'm behind. I took my soccer team up to the mountains this past weekend, and I about toppled over when I woke up to snowfall the first morning. No, not out of shock. Yes, I am from Southern California, but Midwestern roots have allowed plenty of snow experience coupled with snowboard during life BS (before surgeries) in Cali Mountains. No, I toppled over out of pain. Major pain. I couldn't extend. Flex. Walk without a limp. Going up and down stairs was excruciating and scary. I was back at week 7. WTF had happened?! I was flying just hours before this setback. Was it the cold? My PT says yes, that's part of it. The cold and dampness are tightening up all the places in my leg that have struggled thus far, crippling my walking mobility, and creating a vicious cycle of tight muscles, weak muscles, and perpetual compensation.
After a couple weeks of spinning, light hopping, and single-legged squatting, I was back in the saddle today, working out cautiously and, quite frankly, slowly, to ease the pain searing through the front and back of my knee.
If the physical pain wasn't enough, the daggers that bit my skin from the eyes of my PT hit deep as well. She was upset. Disappointed. She asked if I hiked, ran, pushed - all the things I'm not supposed to do. No, I didn't. I was just in the cold. Well did I foam roll and stretch while in an icy hurt? No. Admittedly, I did not. Daggers. I have visible bruises on my thigh and on the side of my leg from her fingers that dug so deep into my leg today, there's a chance vital blood flow was smushed - both by physical touch and stagnant fear. I couldn't decide if it was all necessary because of my status or if it was a big FYou and punishment from her. It's the closest I've come to crying over the injury since the moment I blew it out way back in July. Nothing felt good about today.
That's how my Physical Therapist described my recovery today.
Today was the first time I felt legitimately concerned about my health when it comes to my knee. I'm 4 months out. Remember what that means? Running. Progress. Success.
Not exactly.
As the ironic and unforgiving ACL gods would have it, I'm behind. I took my soccer team up to the mountains this past weekend, and I about toppled over when I woke up to snowfall the first morning. No, not out of shock. Yes, I am from Southern California, but Midwestern roots have allowed plenty of snow experience coupled with snowboard during life BS (before surgeries) in Cali Mountains. No, I toppled over out of pain. Major pain. I couldn't extend. Flex. Walk without a limp. Going up and down stairs was excruciating and scary. I was back at week 7. WTF had happened?! I was flying just hours before this setback. Was it the cold? My PT says yes, that's part of it. The cold and dampness are tightening up all the places in my leg that have struggled thus far, crippling my walking mobility, and creating a vicious cycle of tight muscles, weak muscles, and perpetual compensation.
After a couple weeks of spinning, light hopping, and single-legged squatting, I was back in the saddle today, working out cautiously and, quite frankly, slowly, to ease the pain searing through the front and back of my knee.
If the physical pain wasn't enough, the daggers that bit my skin from the eyes of my PT hit deep as well. She was upset. Disappointed. She asked if I hiked, ran, pushed - all the things I'm not supposed to do. No, I didn't. I was just in the cold. Well did I foam roll and stretch while in an icy hurt? No. Admittedly, I did not. Daggers. I have visible bruises on my thigh and on the side of my leg from her fingers that dug so deep into my leg today, there's a chance vital blood flow was smushed - both by physical touch and stagnant fear. I couldn't decide if it was all necessary because of my status or if it was a big FYou and punishment from her. It's the closest I've come to crying over the injury since the moment I blew it out way back in July. Nothing felt good about today.
This is where I'm supposed to have some profound movement out of my dark, dreary head and into the silver lining. Well, my blogging family, I don't have any of that crap today. I'm frustrated. I'm picky about my post-op body, brain, and boredom, and I want out. I want to be running. I want black and white answers, and I want to GTFO of the gray area that has been my recovery. I want to prove badass pre-op me right and ease through the rest of this.
But I'm amid the perfect storm right now. Everything that has caused an issue or two has come together to perform a larger, more threatening issue. My PT looked disappointed, yes, but she also looked concerned. Up until this point she has been faithful to a fault, confident in me and my ACL's capabilities and dismissive of any small setbacks I have mentioned. We all fell flat today.
My life isn't over. Even my day isn't ruined. I'm fine. People always ask me if I pick up new hobbies during my "off season" - i.e., my recovery days. I suppose so. Or I just focus on those that involve contentment sans physical activity a little bit more. I write more. I read more. I have found myself to be more artistic than I have ever cared to give myself credit for, and I attest that to taking more time to look at my work and creations. I cook more. My (always wonderful) mother came in huge with a brand new, top-of-the-line blender for me a couple of weeks ago, and I've been juicing and making soup to flush out my bad attitude with more vegetables. Yep. I've shelved the nightly ice cream and exchanged it for daily doses of spinach and slushed carrots. It feels awesome to be honest. So I'm not sure if it's picking up new hobbies, or understanding the importance of doing what I can when things just feel a little funky. Ya, I'm fine. I'm living. I'm just disgruntled and perhaps even a smidge bitter. Keepin' it real.
I'm scared as shit. I couldn't properly get the tone across without a four-letter word. I really am. My annual New Years Hike is barely 2 weeks away, and I may not be able to do it. The rain and cold are forecast for the rest of December, and I'm scared I'll have no control over pushing forward with my timeline to get back on the run.
And mostly, I'm scared of not recovering fully. It's happened before.
So now what? Put my big girl pants back on, work twice as hard, listen to my body, and get back on the badass track, right? I want to say it's easier said than done, but I don't know if that's a true statement. It's easy to do what I need to do. It's just exhausting, which ultimately means I'm just getting lazy and fed up with recovering. Once again, it's back to me. I don't know who said it, but there's a quote that goes, "There are no wrong turns, only unexpected paths." Tell that to the captain who navigates his boat into, rather than out of, the perfect storm. Or does that not matter? Is the conquest of weathering those perfect storms so gracious and qualified that there really aren't any wrong turns? Food for thought. Let's see how I handle it.
In the context of my stubborn ACL graft, I'm about to find out...
But I'm amid the perfect storm right now. Everything that has caused an issue or two has come together to perform a larger, more threatening issue. My PT looked disappointed, yes, but she also looked concerned. Up until this point she has been faithful to a fault, confident in me and my ACL's capabilities and dismissive of any small setbacks I have mentioned. We all fell flat today.
My life isn't over. Even my day isn't ruined. I'm fine. People always ask me if I pick up new hobbies during my "off season" - i.e., my recovery days. I suppose so. Or I just focus on those that involve contentment sans physical activity a little bit more. I write more. I read more. I have found myself to be more artistic than I have ever cared to give myself credit for, and I attest that to taking more time to look at my work and creations. I cook more. My (always wonderful) mother came in huge with a brand new, top-of-the-line blender for me a couple of weeks ago, and I've been juicing and making soup to flush out my bad attitude with more vegetables. Yep. I've shelved the nightly ice cream and exchanged it for daily doses of spinach and slushed carrots. It feels awesome to be honest. So I'm not sure if it's picking up new hobbies, or understanding the importance of doing what I can when things just feel a little funky. Ya, I'm fine. I'm living. I'm just disgruntled and perhaps even a smidge bitter. Keepin' it real.
I'm scared as shit. I couldn't properly get the tone across without a four-letter word. I really am. My annual New Years Hike is barely 2 weeks away, and I may not be able to do it. The rain and cold are forecast for the rest of December, and I'm scared I'll have no control over pushing forward with my timeline to get back on the run.
And mostly, I'm scared of not recovering fully. It's happened before.
So now what? Put my big girl pants back on, work twice as hard, listen to my body, and get back on the badass track, right? I want to say it's easier said than done, but I don't know if that's a true statement. It's easy to do what I need to do. It's just exhausting, which ultimately means I'm just getting lazy and fed up with recovering. Once again, it's back to me. I don't know who said it, but there's a quote that goes, "There are no wrong turns, only unexpected paths." Tell that to the captain who navigates his boat into, rather than out of, the perfect storm. Or does that not matter? Is the conquest of weathering those perfect storms so gracious and qualified that there really aren't any wrong turns? Food for thought. Let's see how I handle it.
In the context of my stubborn ACL graft, I'm about to find out...