the diagnosis

So the last time I blogged, I was stuck in my apartment, slowly losing my mind and potentially on the verge of unleashing an epidemic on the state of Washington.

The good news: The test results for whooping cough were negative, and I have since been allowed to return to the public sphere.

Recent adventures in the great outdoors included my first Sounders match:

(Real football is so much better than 'Merican football, largely because I'm a huge fan of watching hot guys with amazing butts sprint for 90 minutes. Also, since everyone in Seattle is nutso for sports, you run into all of your friends at games. Hi, Belle!)

There was also Halloween:

(Gee, I bet you can't guess which pumpkin is mine.)

(Bastet. Because cats. Duh.)

And now I am in the New Jersey/New York area for a combo of business and pleasure.

(My first Big Gay Ice Cream experience. That popsicle was four flavor layers of yum.)

(I really enjoy meeting cats on my travels. In case you haven't noticed.)

However, just as a glazed doughnut cannot exist without being draped with a square of Velveeta cheese that has been melted in the microwave for exactly 20 seconds (shut up, that shit is good and I will not eat glazed doughnuts any other way), so too does good news need bad.

In other words: I have a stress fracture.

I had my bone scan on Halloween (insert some kind of skeleton joke here) and pretty much knew things weren't going to go well when I found myself in an elevator, descending to the bowels of the hospital with a man sprouting devil horns.

And when I saw this ...

... my worst fear (besides being randomly vomited on by a total stranger in a public place, of course) became reality. That big white dot in the center of my left foot? That's a fractured cuboid (a.k.a. the craptacular bone that has plagued me for years).

I can't say I was surprised -- I'd been bracing myself for the worst. But I still teared up a little and posted sad panda declarations of self-pity on Facebook and Twitter. (Especially rough today because of the NYC Marathon. Dear universe: Thanks for surrounding me with 45,000 runners. You've got a great sense of humor. Bitch.)

I'm supposed to talk to my doctor tomorrow about options. It seems he wants to put me in a boot and keep me on crutches (confession: I ditched these awhile ago because it took me 30 minutes to go one block and they made my body so sore and crooked that I thought they were more trouble than they were worth), but I have so many questions about muscle atrophy and overcompensation and alignment. I want to know all avenues and potential consequences before I commit to a method of treatment.

Also: I'd like to know if the boot comes in leopard print.

solitary confinement

You know the home confinement thing is getting to you when you start making up "Whoop, There It Is" jokes about whooping cough.

True story: If you listen closely, my wheezing resembles "shakalaka shakalaka."

Anyway, I am still waiting for my test results. (Side rant: Why the hell is it taking so long? What century are we in? Should I expect the verdict to arrive via telegraph -- antiquated illness requires equally antiquated delivery mode?!)

(Bonus side rant: Pretty sure I just heard one of the cats puke in the living room. Let's take a moment to bid a fond farewell to the 20 minutes of my life that will be required to get from the bedroom to the living room to clean that up. Because crutches suck. And crutches plus shitty, fluid-filled, wheezy-ass lungs are even worse. Shakalaka.)

So how exactly does one pass the time spent confined to one's house (other than listening to early '90s hip-hop, of course)?

Working. Because contrary to the test result people's beliefs, these are modern times and laptops exist. (Also, something really awesome and Washington wine-related is about to happen, so the work must go on.) My "office" is now my bed and my "coworkers" are two cats. (Dear coworkers: Quit puking and scratching up the new couch.) However, it is slightly horrible and embarrassing when I have to tell people I need to cancel all of my in-person meetings because I might have whooping cough and am basically a giant biohazard.

Watching all of the Netflix. Don't judge me for catching up on an entire season of "Vampire Diaries" all at once. Yes, I know "Breaking Bad" and "Downton Abbey" are probably more cerebral choices, but when you are surrounded only by cats all day, watching hours and hours of angsty, well-toned shirtless men is a nice break from reality.

Sleeping. Oh god, the sleep has been amazing. Well, except for right now, obviously. Grrr.

Reading. I'm reluctant to admit I recently started reading Eat Pray Love, which my mom gave me several years ago, and which I have totally resisted for a multitude of reasons until now. This is slightly painful to say, but the book is really not that bad (although the "pray" section is a bit excessive -- I'd rather read about pizza and pasta). And given my dumb relationship history and recent solo sojourn in Paris, I sort of relate to some of the things Gilbert writes about.

Making cat videos. Because duh.

a real winner

After yesterday's less-than-stellar chiropractor visit during which I was informed I shouldn't swim or walk or pretty much do anything for the next 2-4 weeks, and then staying up all night coughing so hard that I actually puked, I thought maybe it was time to go to the doctor.

  

(Why do these places always look like a horror movie is about to happen?)

What occurred during the almost three hours I spent at the doctor's office today can only be described as comical. Because the only thing I can do is laugh at my luck. Because really, it takes a special kind of person -- someone with real talent -- to end up with the diagnosis I received.

Also, I take back everything I said in my last post.

Because apparently I have the symptoms for -- wait for it -- whooping cough. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am potentially a total nightmare for small children and old people. Granted, I won't know for sure until I get my swab test results back, but because of the public health hazard, the doctor had to treat me as if I do have it. So I'm on antibiotics now. And I'm not supposed to leave the house until (a) I find out for sure I don't have whooping cough or (b) I find out I do have whooping cough and the antibiotics kick in.

Which I guess is a good thing since the doctor also thinks I have a stress fracture and shouldn't use my foot at all until the pain is completely gone. My x-ray came out negative, but hairline breaks don't always show up in x-rays, so I have to go back to the doctor next week for a bone scan. And I also have to use crutches. Which I am absolutely terrible at using, so the nurse felt sorry for me and ordered a wheelchair so I could be wheeled out of the doctor's office to my car.

(That moment when you miss two elevators because you can't get wheeled inside fast enough before the doors close. And then everyone stares at you with sad, pitying looks on their faces. And then finally when you do catch an elevator, it's because an elderly woman holds the door open for you. And the whole time you're in said elevator, you keep apologizing to the people around you because you're taking up so much space.) 

Also worth noting: Do not try to tip the guy who wheels your wheelchair because he will reject your money and the whole experience will be horribly awkward. Because apparently even though your broken body feels like a pile of ugly luggage, this does not mean the guy who wheels the wheelchair is the bellboy.

So yes: Today kind of sucked. 

glass half full

Obviously, I'm not in France anymore.

I've been back for 10 days now. Well, technically eight if you subtract the two days I spent in San Francisco for work last week. What can I say? The travel never stops.

And apparently, the foot pain doesn't either. I'm still limping. (Glass half full: The damage seems to be soft tissue and not a stress fracture.) And to add to the awesomeness, I now have bronchitis too. (Glass half full: It's not pneumonia.) So I'm hobbling around and coughing violently. (Glass half full: I am not shitting my pants or projectile vomiting.)

However, that second marathon I was planning to do this year? That's looking less and less like it's going to happen. Although I may still go to the race because all of my California friends are running it and I miss them and want to make signs for them and try to convince them to do dumb things like drink a whole lot of whiskey with me the night before. (Dear California friends: Consider yourselves warned.)

Normally, I would be more than a little upset over a potential DNS. But I'm tired. It's been a crazy year, and I'm ready for the off-season. (Have I mentioned that I finally got a couch? And unpacked all of my books?) I'd like to actually clean and decorate my apartment. And maybe sleep in a little bit on the weekends and not have to worry about long runs and nutrition and battling the weather.

Also: I'd like to learn how to knit embarrassing hats for my cats.

OK, so maybe the illness and the foot pain really are affecting my mind.

my left foot

I ran this morning. It started well. I made it to Les Parc des Buttes Chaumont, which was lovely.

And I was truly enjoying myself and marveling at how great I felt post-marathon and making all sorts of witty mental notes about Euro runners and the abundance of manpris.

And then my left foot totally crapped out: Horrible, sharp, piercing pain that started on top of my foot and radiated outward.

My run lasted all of 25 minutes. And then I had to limp two-something miles back to the apartment. (And on the way, I got hit on by a French dude who told me I looked good and asked me for coffee. When I said no, he asked me if I wanted to have a cigarette. Which makes perfect sense since a cigarette is exactly what I want after run-limping. Whatever. I'll quit being bitchy and take it as a compliment that someone thought my gimpy ass was worth talking to.)

And I haven't been able to walk since. I hobbled down the street for lunch at Comme Sur Une Ile, which thankfully is only a block away ...

... and then hobbled across the street to the pharmacy for anti-inflammatory cream ...

... and then spent the rest of the day in the apartment, icing my foot and reading and trying not to think about Ghostie turning the bathroom lights on and playing with the shower door.

My foot is swollen around the outer ankle bone, and I don't have full range of motion. It also hurts to put weight on it. But the worst part is being stuck indoors on vacation. I feel slightly helpless and isolated and like I'm wasting precious time. And I'm a blatant traffic target now -- if I almost got hit by a bus yesterday with full mobility, there's no way I could escape limping around like I am.

Fingers crossed that by resting today, I will feel better tomorrow and can explore again.