An Uncomfortable Pause

“Oh, AH!” my Welsh grandfather would say, seemingly out of nowhere. This meant ‘oh, aye,’ or ‘oh, yes,’ an assent to no proposition, a way to fill empty air, as when the conversation had petered out. No one who knew him would have said conversation was his strong suit anyway. He had an odd way of whistling to himself without properly whistling at all. I suspect decades of working by himself on a dairy farm in the Welsh weather had made him a bit introverted and a bit awkward.

About three weeks ago, I rolled my ankle while running (serves me right I suppose) and heard two distinct pops. These turned out to be the partial tearing of my anterior talofibular and posterior talofibular ligaments, but finding that out, via MRI, also led to the discovery of some other issues. Severe tenosynovitis in my foot (inflammation of the distal peroneus longus and brevis for those of you with medical backgrounds). Bone spurs and an old bone fragment in the ankle itself, leftovers from previous injuries. I have become the human embodiment of that one cart at the grocery store, the one with the wobbly wheel that you exchange for a functioning cart, before you go insane wobbling your way down the bread aisle.

The injury happened at an inopportune time (when are injuries ever convenient?). I had been training for a long, technical trail race, and I rolled the ankle on the last, short taper run before the race itself. So, I missed the event, and that sucks, but I also missed out on the riding I might otherwise have done in the month leading up to the event. My plan had been to run hard through this first week of May, and then ride my absolute brains out (a knowing wink to those of you wondering what brains I might be referring to).

And so here it is, the end of May, and I haven’t turned the pedals once in two months or so. “Oh, AH!” I say staring blankly out the window. The pause has become somewhat uncomfortable.

I have the aggrieved sense of a young child who’s been made to miss recess. It feels very unfair (though yes, entirely of my own making). The process of X-ray and walking boot and MRI and follow up appointment is achingly slow, and I have reached the point I reach in almost every injury I have sustained, the point at which I no longer care that I am damaged. The issue, I will certainly be telling my orthopedist, is not physical. It’s a matter of mental health.

My wife points out that this is why my ankle is so bad, because I have never sustained the treatment that promises to make it better. And that is fair enough, but I have competing priorities. If the inability to pedal drives me too deep into the mental trough of anger/depression/despair, what is a non-wobbly ankle even worth?

And in the interest of accuracy, I should own that I am bringing unnecessary drama and hyperbole to the situation, but I’m also kinda NOT being dramatic. I’m losing it. I’m getting it back together sometimes, too. But I am not meant for sitting still.

The doctor who read the MRI, which took in the right foot, ankle and lower leg, wants to do a second MRI focusing only on the ankle. This is akin to the bomb disposal team wanting a time out to run to 7-11 for Slurpees before they get down to cutting the black wire (or is it the green)?

I said to my doctor, “If we’re not doing surgery, and we can name the damaged ligaments, what is the point of another MRI? All roads just lead to physical therapy, right?” To which came the reply, “That’s a good question. I’m just telling you what the other doctor said.”

“Oh, AH!” the pause just gets more and more uncomfortable.

My Welsh grandfather was 5′ 2″ and he had talons for hands. There was an enormous bony bulge in his right wrist, from where he’d broken it as a kid, doing something he was not supposed to be doing. He hid the injury from his parents, and it just healed that way.

I am not nearly so tough, but neither am I so patient.