Have You Taken Your Pills?

Let us meditate on the following: ice is our friend and we shall not want.

Been doing ice therapy since the first marathon I shuffled through. The right knee is pretty much done for–beginning with the final 20-miler before my first race when I dodged a kid on a bike and hit the bike trail barrier instead. Ten miles into the race itself, I stopped at an aid station, asking I can still run, but my knee doesn’t bend too well and it kinda hurts. What do you think? Which the medical crew interpreted to mean I was thoroughly out of my mind. My massage therapist told me runners were fools with feet—about taking care of their injuries.

For the next decade and a half, that was followed by knee on one side, ankle on the other, then both knees and ankles; lower back in between. It’s surprising I have joints and nerves left working after all the ice.

The joke about cocaine is that it’s God’s way of saying you have too much money; the joke about marathons is that it’s Her way of saying you have too much time.

But I’ve gotten ice bags down to a science. Only need an ice bag or two laid up waiting in the freezer. No big deal.

Recently the elbow started to scream about doing bicep curls and the shoulder press during my massive weight workouts. How am I to make the next Olympiad? I’ll need to buy another bag, maybe two. Freezer’s gonna fill up. No place to stash the ice cream.

Learning how to use clipped-in biking shoes cost me a fractured wrist, but I suppose it could have been worse. My pride, falling in slow motion while coming to a red light at Reston Avenue, was greatly wounded, and my Sunday afternoon date wasn’t too impressed either. After multiple ice treatments that evening, the wrist was hurting worse, so I drove myself to the ER to get a phosphorescent cast put on the forearm. To this day, the wrist protests on the bench press, and after a half hour into a bike ride. I took care of it, so what’s the SOB complaining about?

After I did in a rotator cuff a few years ago, a friend offered me a phenomenal ice bag for my shoulder. After the surgery, morphine didn’t touch that sucker, but the ice did. That and eating Advil like M&Ms.

Wearing the boot to bed (again) for plantar fasciitis isn’t helping the REM cycle none. The boot is definitely not my friend. In some countries it’s said to be a torture device. Plantar fasciitis put me out of road racing for good, but I thought the inflammation was done and gone ten years ago. Oh no. Walking Layla twice a day did it in. Half asleep last night, turning over, the damn boot scraped the opposite big toe’s bunion and hurt like a sonofabitch! Poor baby.

Alpha Medical Night Splint

But not wearing the boot means getting up in the morning in a very slow limp to the shower to warm up the inflamed foot, while Layla waits, chin on the tile for her walk.

I hate stairs and don’t intend to die on one. So what if I’m doing a sideways one step foxtrot on the downhill? Better than trusting the gimpy knee that likes to give out occasionally. More ice!

Brain remains in the present tense, always hoping, while the odometer on the body rolled over years ago. I need to remind myself the gray hair is there for a reason.

Paybacks are hell, so I’ve heard.

Dear Diary  

Does my very particular-about-food canine buddy need her chicken roasted crisply every day? Hurried right from oven to dinner plate, er, dog bowl? Should I put on an apron and dance down the stairs, plate held on high while lustily singing? Ain’t happening–not down those stairs.

You’ve no doubt heard felines are finicky so they’re lavished with nourishment in spite of better judgment? Oh, my little kitty poo! Yeah? Well, I’m here to tell you Ms. Layla is the queen of the dismissive sniff.

Don’t bother me. I’ve got things to do!

At the moment, I’m guarding the deck from that family of racoons, and the black and white cat who enjoys strolling languidly across the street just to taunt me. No chin in sight—disgusting.

Uh uh.

If you leave me in the bedroom when you sneak away Friday nights instead of taking me with you, I’ll most likely sleep on the bed while you’re gone. What’s the problem—you left me here?

Sunday, we met an ancient dodger boxer-shepherd mix on the beach, and boy, did I put that geezer in his place. He musta thought he was one cute puppy, trotting around with that log in his teeth like a prize, but if I’d have gotten free of the damn lead, I would have run his butt ragged. All in good fun, hah hah hah!

Man, do I love digging holes in the beach sand! Easy peasy. And the SMELLS! Always impresses the folks gathered around that I’m so talented–as well as gorgeous.

Lemme lick some at this sand I dug up. Yum.

After the crispy chicken, I didn’t feel so good. Musta been that weird tasting sand I ate at the beach. Dunno.

Monday, all day the Management was quite solicitous. I was feeling pretty low since I barfed up last night’s dinner–several times–and Management didn’t even complain when he stepped in it at 3 in the morning. He carried me in from the yard when we went out; fifty pounds of love, that’s me! He and his cohort could see I was feeling really yucky. So I lay about mostly sleeping—not like I usually do.

My tummy was a bit better last night, so I barked at the racoons then went back to bed.

Don’t eat the yellow snow, philosophically speaking. Nor the sand.

Damn! That fat cat strolled across the street again this morning going nah, nah nah. Oh! Just let go of that leash for a second, and I’ll make him pay! I’ll come back–eventually–honest.

Pet Harbor said I wasn’t to be trusted around cats. Say what? I’m completely predictable; just let go of that damn leash! How’d you like to be on a leash?

Monday was really rough.