unironedman

The above picture is a cunning segue from the end of the last post. Can you see it? No. Can you be arsed to work it out? Also no. It’s okay. I’ll tell you. Just as a by the by, this is not actually a lake; it’s a flooded meadow – a deliberate act by the local authority who diverted a stream into this field to help promote aquatic biodiversity. And it seems to be working.

So, there are two mallards in the middle of the photo. As in, ‘only two ducks in a row’. (Editor’s note: would two ducks not always be ‘in a row’, as such?). No third, as it may be a pigeon. Still confused? Never mind. It’s not my best work. Did I mention I fell off a roof recently?

I was back in the hospital today. Arrived early, at about 8am. Still, the outpatients department was bustling with staff, and crocks like me. I had hardly taken my seat when I was asked to head on down to the x-ray department for a scan on my wrist. Oh good… and what about my back? Sorry? Yes, my back; that should be x-rayed as well? Sorry, it’s not listed here…

Ho, hum. I went down anyway, and they dutifully scanned the wrist in its cast. I asked him about the back. No dice, without that little slip of paper. He did try to ring back up to the OPD, but there were no doctors in until nine. I returned back to my seat, and met Dave, the young doctor who had looked after me in the ED and had seen me a few weeks ago. I mentioned the lack of spine scans, and he shook his head and sighed, and within minutes, I was heading back down to the x-ray department for a second set of scans.

Back up to the OPD. Retake my seat. Wait. Get called by nurse. Please head up to the cast room. Odd. Same wonderful lady who put on my previous cast, who proceeds to whip out a menacing circular saw to remove the cast, sawing two neat lines, top and bottom, and, using a nifty pair of stainless steel spreaders, cracking the whole thing open with the gusto of someone about to tuck into a lobster. (Ed. Are you sure about this metaphor?)

Dave reappears to explain that the wrist scans were a little grainy, so they send me back down to the x-ray department for a third time. I should be getting frequent flyer miles. Though I suppose I mustn’t grumble… (it’s all part of the health service we pay for in taxes), and indeed, I don’t grumble, despite Dave apologising several times, I laugh it off, and point out that I’m really not doing anything else at the moment, and I have four hours in the meter outside. We’re all good.

The upshot of all this scanning is that things are going in the right direction. The cast will hopefully come off in two weeks, which is sooner than I thought. But I won’t object. The back brace can be relaxed around the house, and just worn if I am heading out or doing any activities like dog walking. And in about four to six weeks, we can start doing some actual exercises, such as yoga (Dave’s suggestion), and swimming. In the meantime, I will do some work on the spin bike upstairs, starting tomorrow.

I would love to have an MRI as well, to see what’s going with the discs, because things could obviously get worse if one or two were to prolapse. But I don’t think the hospital will stretch to that. As of yet, Dave hasn’t said I can’t run. Though he hasn’t really enthused about it either. I am keen to get back out there, obviously. But not if it could have repercussions. And so we wait.

I mentioned the pain cave. What sparked that off was an email from the good folk over at Garmin. Here’s the header of said same mail:

I must admit, I never really liked either of those expressions; ‘crushing it’, nor the ‘pain cave’. And sticking them together created a rather horrific visual. Forgive me, my American friends, but they are both really… American. Look, when you say you are going to crush it, or that you are ‘in your pain cave’ or your ‘hurt locker’, it makes the baby Jesus cry, okay? It’s just so… unnecessary 😉

And let’s me honest, when you are asked how your ultra run was up the mountains, and you respond with gusto that you absolutely ‘crushed it’, what did you crush, exactly? Not the mountain, anyway. Indeed, the spirit of the mountain will not be best pleased with such indolence, and whilst they may choose to laugh it all off if they are in good humour, they are more likely to send you for an extended stay in your pain cave on your next visit ’til you learn some manners.

I’m sure all runners – especially those of us who do longish distances – have moments when the wheels come off. It’s part of the gig. Indeed, and here I agree with Dean Karnazes in his latest book, A Runner’s High, where he embraces all that grief, suffering and sheer madness of the ultra events. Now, I am no Dean Karnazes. We share initials, and that’s about it. But I can relate to the idea that what most folk would consider nuts (running a hundred miles, say), guys like Dean would relish.

Just don’t go into your pain cave, okay? Surely you have a happy place, or something? (Forgive my grumpiness: I blame the 50% of me that’s English. It is the same ethos that sparked that tale from the filming of Marathon Man. It would seem that Dustin Hoffman, the quintessential method actor, had stayed awake for 48 hours straight in order to play his strung-out character. The rather bemused Sir Laurence Olivier – as British an actor as you could possibly get – said ‘why don’t you try acting, dear boy?’)

And so, to finish. A few pics from today’s walk with the dogs in the park, and a couple of funnies, seeing as the last batch seemed to hit the funny bone. Bone! Geddit?

I’m here ’til Tuesday…