"It started as pain in my left foot when I'd get out of bed in the morning, a sharp pressure, like my foot had turned into a grape while I slept, now being squished under my weight to near bursting." The intensification had been gradual; over weeks, my subconscious had invented explanations that, by the time the pain crossed the threshold to consciousness, my better judgment couldn't refute: It was a circulation issue, a hydraulic problem caused by my still-nursing infant, who often fell asleep across my arm, leaving it tingly in the morning. I had had lots of aches and pains from bearing three children in my late 30s. Annoying, but this too would pass.
Full disclosure: I was also training for the New York Marathon, which would have been the first suspect for any normal person, but I would not then, or now, let running take the blame for what would be revealed as "plantar fasciitis" and much more. My mother and I have been engaged in a years-running battle over the virtues v. evils of running. I maintain, if I have to get bionic knees someday, as have my mother and her siblings (none of whom we runners), I'd rather run my way to the OR.
But I was stubbornly ignoring whatever my feet were trying to tell me. After admitting to myself that it got worse after long runs, so might not be a side-effect of night nursing, I started to investigate. "Plantar fasciitis" came up early as a possible culprit, but my ignorant self confused it with plantar warts, which visual examination quickly disqualified. A pre-med student once upon a time, I love the mystery of diagnosis, but I am also descended of stoic Yankees, with one strain of Christian Science mixed in, who milked cows through all kinds of undiagnosed pains without a whimper; plus I'd postponed running the NY marathon once already when I got pregnant with Tucker, so like hell was I going to miss it again; which is all to say, I was my own worst enemy.
It turns out the hip bone really is connected to the knee bone, and the knee bone really is connected to the... ankle bone, and so on. Six months after the marathon, after which I'd stopped running all together to let it heal, the pain was not relenting at all. If anything, it was getting worse. I finally went to a Manhattan podiatrist who informed me that my other area of chronic pain -- namely, the underside of my butt -- could be related. The butt pain intensified whenever I pushed the double stroller, i.e. 100 pounds of boy, metal, and yogurt-encrusted canvas, which I did for an average five miles a day at that time. At this point in the story, my friend Cindy nods sympathetically and says, diplomatically, "You do have a very... athletic... way of pushing that stroller." It's because I'm always late, I say, suddenly self-conscious of my stroller-pushing form (do I stick my butt out too far? why hasn't anyone ever stopped me and let me know that I'm a spaz, or worse?). Where was I when they taught new moms the right way to push a stroller?
It also turns out that, not only are all the parts connected, but they never forget all the bad things you've done to them, and when you reach a certain age, they feel entitled to remind you. 1983: Cold rainy field hockey practice -- pop, my hamstring. 1988: The Stanford Dish, finals done, end of freshman year -- my friend Elizabeth and I stumble back to campus after two bottles of wine, now in pitch darkness, when rip, my ankle rolls over into a ditch. 1997: IT band pain from Big Sur marathon. 2004-Present: Pushing, hauling, heaving, nursing, twisting, crooking, lifting kids, strollers, bikes, groceries, knotweed, dogs, phones, etc. usually with another kid stashed on my left hip (need right for stirring the pot! answering the phone!). 2013: Butt and foot pain metastasizes to right lower quad and left hip, with possible SI joint involvement (is that the popping sound in certain yoga postures?). At last, I submitted to a chiropractor, who takes one look at me and pronounces my right leg shorter than my left.
What? How many pediatricians should have detected this? This would explain so many imbalances in my life. Was this a genetic anomaly, or a development problem? Had my right foot been gotten stuck somewhere in my mother's womb? Would I need those special shoes with the extra platform on one side? Dr. Safko cut me off. You are like a car that came out of the factory perfectly aligned, he explained, but you've hit some bumps and potholes along the road and lost your alignment. You can drive like that for years -- you're young, your body compensates -- until one day, out of nowhere, you have a blow-out.
As I've stood in the breakdown lane waiting for roadside assistance these past months, other cars whizzing pitilessly past me, the vulnerability of my physical being has set in. Our biologist friend, Harry, calls the 40s "the age of the crumblies." Sigh. I submitted to weekly chiropractic therapy this winter, involving electrification and excruciating massage (Dr. Safko's welcoming words: "This is not a spa"). I was encouraged when he declared, after three sessions, "Your alignement is great! No leg discrepancies!" Until I injured something new while performing a therapeutic twist at home on my mat, and my hip, quad and butt started bickering again. I was discouraged.
But there is a silver lining to my ominous cloud. My running friend Jimmy Moore, who ran until his death at 90, used to say pain is our bodies' way of talking to us, and we are wise to listen. I found this profoundly true in child birth; the pain guided me to what I needed to do, and my body revealed its own stores of relief. So why have I been I so resistent to listening now?
Like most people, I find it hard to face time passing, to accept that my body no longer just heals by itself while I keep pushing it, to deal with the ways my life's structure wreaks low-grade havoc on my body, a structure I have felt powerless to change. To add insult to my injuries, I've always found middle-aged people who can only talk about their aches and pains to be bores, and yet here I was (am), joining their ranks. Hence poor Cindy, stuck at a bus stop listening to my tale (and tail) of woe, probably again. Hence you poor people, reading this blog post!
But I decided to commit this tedious story to print paradoxically to let it go. I don't want to forget the worthy lessons of this chapter, lest healing come and I be tempted to charge back into older bad habits; rather, I hope to strengthen some of these new, better habits so I don't have to keep thinking about them all the time (and can become an old person with a broader spectrum of interests!). It turns out I am not powerless to change the structure of my life after all, but I have to start with my head. I've been frustrated not to "find the fix," instead of realizing that the fix is a process rather than a destination. From now on, some body part or other will always be chattering at me with information I don't want to hear, but if I listen instead of shutting it up, I'll come out better in the end. Small changes make big differences. I go to yoga first, then deal with household chores. I don't pinch the cellphone in my neck while making dinner. I sit crisscross apple sauce while watching Friday Night Lights, my hips slowly recovering lost mobility. And I don't push the double stroller any more, for which my butt thanks me. But now it is telling me to get off it, so I will.
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