When things went crazy after Emmie’s birth, one of my first questions to the cardiologist was “when can I start running again?”. I know how that sounds but I think somewhere in there was me trying to hold on to some shred of normality. The cardiologist gave me a look that said “woman please, don’t come at me with this moon-on-a-stick bullshit! I’ve given you normal heart function and breast feeding, you’re all out of favours”.
I took that on the chin and waited a few weeks until our next appointment, by which time of asking I had worn him down enough to get a cautious sigh of resignation.
Later that day I did what anyone would do coming back from serious illness and took off on a 3 mile run. It was a pretty slow run: At one point Runkeeper piped up to ask me if I was sure I hadn’t selected “running” in error and would I like to change my activity type to “punting on the Thames”. I told Runkeeper I’d change its activity from “being a smartarse” to “flying through the air” if it didn’t shut up.
I was so pumped when I got home I joined a running club. Well I had 6 months to train for a half marathon, what else was I supposed to do?
You can stop face palming at me now, you’re going to bruise.
So training was going well, and I quite quickly shrunk to a size 12 despite taking absolutely no care over what I was eating. It was much harder to get out for runs being at home, but I managed enough that I felt I was really making progress.
And then it occurred to me that the slightly annoying “YEAH! Good job buddy!” ache you get the day after exercise had in fact turned into “I.am.going.to.kick.your.ass” pain that never went away. So I ignored it and carried on regardless.
This week it is less than a month until my race and I can’t so much as walk without wincing, let alone run. Sensibly, I made an appointment with a physio and gave him a challenge that all physios enjoy: to get me fit NOW pleasethankyou. To his credit he seems game.
His view is that the combination of pregnancy hormones, bed rest, fat ass baby, running and many other things that come under the category of “life n’shit” have left me with some serious stability issues in my pelvis. The big clue for him was the fact that my sacroiliac joint had slipped leaving me with one leg shorter than the other: AN INCH SHORTER! I hadn’t noticed, but that is because I am stupid and had been taking my hip pain as a sign I just needed to train harder.
So as of now, I am on a hefty dose of anti-inflammatories and a load of exercises because my physio and St Jude? Best of friends.
I also have to wear a support belt whenever I’m not in public which I’m overjoyed about: Clearly two small children - one of whom sleeps in my bed - wasn’t enough of a challenge to my love life!
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