Do you even swim, bro?
“Do you swim? Can you swim?” It was hard to tell his facial expression through his mask, but his eyes looked neutral as if he delivered this kind of news and asked these kind of questions on the daily.
There have been three times in my life when I haven’t been able to run for an extended period of time. The second time, was in 2003 when at mile 23 of my very first marathon I felt a searing, fiery pain pulse through the bottom of my foot and had to walk-hobble the last 3.2 miles to the finish. I’d torn the plantar fascia in my right foot and was on crutches for two weeks followed by a long stretch of no running.
This was the third time, sitting in a windowless exam room with anatomical posters of feet on the wall and brochures displaying all sorts of foot maladies in a plexiglass box bolted to the door.. The PA had come in, taken a seat on the rolling stool, my chart in his hand, and after a quick summary of my condition (partial tear of the plantar fascia, edema in the calcaneus indicating possible stress reaction) said, “So no running for 2-3 months.”
But the very first time I was told I couldn’t run (at a time when I didn’t even consider myself a runner, when running was so new to me I thought two miles war far), was when I entered treatment for anorexia. It was summer then too, twenty-one years ago.
~
“Normally, this type of low heart rate would indicate severe damage to the heart,” the clinic nurse said, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck, leaving it dangling, an awkward half necklace. “I don’t want you running. You just aren’t well enough.”
The ultimatum hit like a blow across the back. I needed running. Not because of the calorie burn, but for the way it made the barrage of wild and destructive thoughts stop. I’d trained my thoughts along a single track and now they were a runaway train. I was two separate selves: a self that wanted complete control and a self that wanted life–a real life, not a half-life distorted by obsession and compulsion. The war between the part of me that wanted to be well and the part of me that refused to change was palpable. I was not one.
All the Sunday morning prayers hadn’t done a thing to bring me back together, to make my mind stop. Running had become my prayer--a moving meditation. When I ran I became immersed in the minutia of the natural world: the buds on trees, the cracks in the pavement, the roots and rocks, the light, the shadows, the breath, the heartbeat. The complicated world outside disappeared, the chatter of self-loathing, the rumination and compulsive thinking ceased. When I ran the tightly wound narrative unraveled. Running was the only place I could escape.
The nurse turned toward her desk, bending over to make a note in my chart. Where would I go to escape the barrage now? I choked on the disappointment lodged in my throat. Flushed with the threat of tears, I swallowed hard, the disappointment turning to a defiant rage heating up my belly. She can’t make me.
“Ok.” came my measured response. “And for how long do I have to stop running?” It’s not like she was following me around, no one was. I could do what I wanted. I could run. She would never know.
“Really, not until your weight returns to a normal range and your heart is stronger.” The nurse finished her notes and stood.
“And what happens if I do run?” I pressed.
She breathed out a sigh, crossed her arms so the fit tightly against her body and looked at me, her face contorted with both frustration and concern.
“You might die,” she said
As she turned back towards her desk, I weighed whether or not I’d follow this new directive. How much could I bend the rules without breaking myself? This is her scare tactic, I thought. I bet she threatens all her patients with death.
As I walked down the hallway of the orthopedic office on Monday a wave of old emotion. Which caught me off guard. I ducked into the bathroom and while I washedm hands looked at my tear-filled eyes just visible above my mask in the mirror. Why was I on the verge of crying? I knew this was coming. In fact, the appointment had gone better than I thought. I’d assumed I’d be in a boot (turns out Mr. Do-You-Even-Swim-Bro is not a fan of boots).
And as I made my way to the car, I realized this dejavu feeling wasn’t just about not being able to run, it was more than that. It was so reminiscent of the summer of 2002, the summer I was in treatment at the eating disorder clinic, when I’d come out of the air-conditioned clinic into the heat of the parking lot, the air thick and heavy with humidity and failure.
Being diagnosed with an eating disorder at age eighteen had made me feel like a failed adult (and if you go even deeper: I equated the eating disorder to a moral failure, a sin). Like I’d tried to fly, but somehow had clipped my own wings, and plunged to the ground. Walking out of the orthopedic office on Monday made me feel not just like a failed runner, but a failed version of myself, as if I had forgotten the one lesson I’ve worked so hard to learn: how to honor my body.
Sitting in the car, my negative internal critic started to wind up and threw a few punches:
“Looks like she didn’t learn her lesson the first time. You’d think that after going through an eating disorder she’d know that if you push your body too hard it breaks.”
“Doesn’t she see how she’s swapped one addiction for another?
I distanced myself from the thoughts and realized the truth: this isn’t really about running. This is about core belief and fear that I’m a failure if I don’t get it right. And “it” could be anything. The injury was just a trigger for a cascade of thought patterns and emotions that have been there since childhood.
The thing is I knew I needed a break from running. I knew I needed a break last year right around this time when life stress was so big and overwhelming that it made adding stress through workouts seem impossible. I couldn’t make myself run fast for 30-second strides, let alone longer tempo efforts. It just wasn’t fun. And so my coach and I decided to take a two-month break: no planned training, just movement for joy. Through September of 2021, I did other things to move my body without the pressure of a major race goal. It felt good for a month and then I was itching again for a goal. It was on the track on an October afternoon that I first felt the twinge in my heel and I knew exactly what it was: plantar fasciitis. But it wasn’t painful like the plantar fasciitis I’d experienced before, so I ignored it. Managed it. Ran through it. Until in February it developed into a persistent discomfort that I couldn’t ignore and by that time I had races on the calendar. So I planned to get through May and June with dry needling, Graston and then spend July easing off the running and getting to the bottom of things in July. I guess I got to the bottom of things.
“Do you have any questions?” The PA had rolled back against the wall, his (presumably healthy feet) extended out in front of him and crossed at the ankles.
“Yeah, what about hiking? Long walks? Is that OK?”
“No, you really shouldn’t. I really recommend swimming. You can find an Olympic pool near you, maybe swim some laps, do some pool running.” He tossed out casually as if public pools in New Hampshire were as ubiquitous as stonewalls. They are not.
“I have an ElliptiGO, do you [even] know what that is [bro]? Can I ride that?”
“Yes. I know what that is. That should be fine.” Later he referenced the seat on the ElliptiGO and I realized, he had no idea what he was talking about.
I mentally rehearsed the things I could do, which turns out to be a relatively long list. And realized that while this injury stirred up a whole host of old emotions, I’m not the same woman I was twenty years ago. This loss of control hasn’t elicited a frantic response, if anything it has given me perspective and clarity and filled me with a sense of gratitude that I have come so far. That I am still alive.
“I know this is hard to hear,” the PA stood from his rolling stool, his hand on the knob of the exam room. “But if you can try swimming, you’ll be able to stay active and that will help.”
And before I understood the words spilling out of my mouth, I said: “Maybe this will turn me into a triathlete?”
“There ‘ya go. You never know,” and he closed the door behind him.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
-Sarah