It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
English novelist (1812 – 1870)
This pretty much sums up the two months that have passed since my last blog entry. Things have been a little hectic: The January-March period is always incredibly busy on the work front, but this time I experienced some personal challenges that required every ounce of emotional strength I had, including the tragic death of my father-in-law, and Da Son who… let’s just say he wasn’t reaching his full potential…
Anyways, you may have noticed that my previous blog was posted on 29 January – four days after my birthday party.
What I didn’t mention was that I got hurt at this party – a joint Mexican showdown for Da Husband and I, since we celebrate our respective birthdays exactly 7 days apart (making me the Older Woman for a whole week!).
I have no idea what happened, although I suspect the 120 tequilas on the bar bill had something to do with it. In a nutshell, I woke up the next morning with a HUGE ankle and quite a bit of pain in my foot. Da Husband actually suspected I had gout for a few days!
In true Leo style, I gave it a few days, wore compression socks and applied generous helpings of ice, but it didn’t make any difference. This sad state of affairs even managed to stump my physio and GP.
Anyhoo, so off I went to the Constantia Sports Medical Centre for a look-see and after a bit of prodding and poking, the doc sent me straight to X-rays. Things were looking a little dodge, so I was referred to an orthopedic surgeon. “At the R700 consultancy fee he’d better either be drop dead sexy or give me the most devastating news known to man… either way – I need value for my money,” I thought on the way to him this morning.
One 20-minute MRI later (I can neither confirm nor deny that I fell asleep in the tunnel), it turns out that there’s a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig problem with my peroneal tendon. I saw the scan. Only surgery can fix this shit.
So, on 29 April, two days after participating in the Freedom Swim, I’ll be lining up for another kind of personal challenge: I will have foot surgery. Which means six weeks in a cast. Six more weeks in a moon boot. Rehab. Starting from scratch. All my racing and PB dreams on hold for the rest of the year.
I’m gutted. Plus – I have no idea how I’m going to pay for the op. The entire waiting room packed out laughing when I asked if there was some kind of 20 year payment plan I could sign up for.
Of course, I’m chomping at the bit and suffering from the most extreme FOMO known to man. No more Knysna. No more Gun Run. No more attempting my first marathon.
Happy cat is no longer happy.
Challenges for the next few weeks:
- finding money to afford all of this (so much for the Garmin I wanted to buy)
- losing about 100 Lindt Bunnies’ worth in weight so that I don’t break the scale when I get admitted on the 29th (I still have the half ironman appetite but am sadly lacking in the exercise department)
- trying to convince the anesthetist that I’d much rather have an epidural than general anesthetic.
Will keep you posted.