On Sitting Still

April 1, 2017

My sister bought me this book for Christmas with 366 questions in it, one per day (plus leap day). You answer the same question over a five-year period and see how your responses change with your life.

On March 17, the question is: What new activity have you tried? In 2016, I answered: Running a half marathon. March 28: What do you want to remember about today? I wrote: Amazing track workout. Finished 10x400s, full abs/drills/cool down. It felt so good. Of all the things I want to remember in the future—running. The feeling of pure exhaustion at the end of a grueling workout. What it’s like to be in shape. What it’s like to be fast.

I am a restless mover, a quick walker, impatient when I can’t get where I’m going at the speed I’d like. These past four months have been hard. Booted and slow, I have felt constricted with every step, hitting table legs when I sit, unable to run up and down stairs at my normal sprint, ankle throbbing when I try to dance. More than that, I haven’t been able to run. I miss the outdoors, the trails, hour-long runs in the open air. I miss pounding away at the track with the sun throwing heat up from the ground, sweat and adrenaline coursing through my limbs. I miss what it’s like to cross the finish line after the last draining interval and collapse to the earth, fingertips pulsing. I miss the way the sky spins above me as I lie there, so fiercely connected to the world below.

When I don’t run, I am jittery, anxious. I don’t tire; I’m not hungry. I feel off, as if I’m missing something fundamental in my day. I’m not the best runner—solidly mediocre, I can push myself as hard as I want and I’ll never have that raw talent, that spark, that natural speed. But lately, my muscles are fading. My heart beats a little faster, the lack of aerobic exercise taking its toll. I am less motivated, less focused, less aware. Anyone who knows me knows I am addicted to the sport. And without running, I’m not quite myself.

In early February, I went back to the doctor with the hope that he’d either tell me I needed surgery immediately or let me get back to exercising. Instead, he told me to keep the boot on. We’re still not sure if you’re improving, but it can’t hurt to keep your foot immobilized for now. Hang in there, okay?

I called my mom and cried.

For about seventy percent of high school, I hated the physical act of running. When I got tired, I made up excuses to stop. I lost my drive to train, and as a result, I lost a lot of my speed. I dropped from fourth on the team to eighth, ninth. I missed my chance to go to states.

Then, junior year, we did this ladder workout and I realized I could barely run anymore. I finished my first 500 and fell to the grass and just started sobbing. My coach ran up: Are you okay? I was curled in a ball, head in my hands, shaking, I can’t do it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. My friend grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. Veronica. You are going to finish this workout.

I did, somehow, and in the next meet, I dropped thirty-seven seconds off my mile time.

Fast forward, nearly two years later, and I am waking up from the anesthesia. Sleepy. Blinking slowly into consciousness. My last memory is of the doctor putting an oxygen mask to my face and telling me, think of something you’d like to dream about. But I don’t dream about anything. There is a cast on my foot and an IV pumping water and electrolytes slowly into my veins.

The nurse helps me into a wheelchair. When I stand easily, spin and hop on my left leg, she says, you’re an athlete, aren’t you?

She pushes me into the hallway. Out through the waiting room, into the elevator, down to the car, which is parked in the basement. I refuse her help and make it from the chair to the passenger seat on my own. Lean my head back. It doesn’t hurt, not really. They tell me it will, but I’m just hungry from not having eaten in nearly 24 hours and tired from the anesthetic. Four to six weeks, non-weight bearing. No particularly strenuous movement. Certainly no running.

I hope by June to be outside again. Trail stretched out before me. Sun high in the sky, a bright summer’s day. Warm. The ground soft, springy, perfect for running. Feet strong and no longer booted, aching to move, to be free.

Don’t worry, though. I’ll start off slow. 

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