In October adductor and hip pain sidelined me for the Marine Corps Marathon for the THIRD time. (I’m just never signing up for that race again.) Now I finally have a diagnosis: a stress fracture in the compression side of my femoral neck, or in non-MD terms, in my hip.

So it’s non-weight bearing crutches for me for the next 8 weeks. And in case you’re wondering why I look so pretty, this is my face bleary and puffy from crying in the orthopedist’s office. I bet they just love their new patient. (They probably thought by going into sports medicine that they wouldn’t have to deal with as many cryfests in their offices but I sure showed them!) Have to say I’m not sure if I wore a Boston Marathon shirt more to torture them (to guilt-trip my medical team for the diagnosis?) or myself, but it sure seems sadistic looking at it now. And sitting here still wearing it. With a second Boston Marathon sweatshirt over top. (What? My house is cold.)

Doctor’s orders are no training of any kind for at least 6 weeks. Then maybe we can reintroduce swimming back onto the bones. As the hubs joked, it’s kinda cruel that this is what it took to make me want to swim.

Honestly the whole thing feels cruel today. And hopeless. This is the third stress fracture I’ve had in six years of racing. Plus  there was that whole bike crash debacle which is the medical gift that keeps on giving. (As in medical bills. And neurological symptoms.) It feels like a rare year when I’m not on the disabled list. (It feels that way because statistically it is that way.) So right now I just feel like the math is telling me that I’m not meant to be a runner or triathlete.

I’ve never felt this hopeless before. I’ve been disappointed yes but not like this. I’ve definitely never cried (all day) over a stress fracture or injury. (I did cry some during the bike crash ordeal but my brain was broken.) I didn’t even cry when, at the ripe age of 28, I was told I needed heart surgery to repair a birth defect. That was arguably much more serious. (Though with a much shorter, less invasive recovery!) I’ve never cried over a diagnosis or felt so lost.

Sure these crutches are many times worse than the airboots to which I’ve been previously sentenced. And I’m stuck on them longer than I was ever in das boot. But I think it is now the cumulative effect of being benched year after agonizing year that has me spiraling this time and seriously questioning whether I have any future in this sport.

When I heard from my doctor this morning I told Josh that I didn’t want to do this anymore. That I want to withdraw from every race I had planned in 2019. I obviously can’t do the Boston Marathon in April now; and probably not the 70.3 I’m registered for in May. (Don’t worry Tiff, I’ll still be there no matter what.) Who knows about Ironman Lake Placid in July. And I’m no longer excited to go watch people whose bodies aren’t such traitors race Kona in October since I feel that dream slipping forever away. Presumably I’ll be healthy in time to train for Ironman Arizona in November, but who wants to train for something so late in the season after everything leading up to it has been a let down. (Plus I could just have another fall injury.) A big part of me wants to just pull out and ask for my refunds now rather than spend the winter and spring agonizing over it all. (Thank goodness for race insurance. Learned that lesson in 2014.)

I also expressed this fatalism to Ellen and she promised it’s natural to feel this way, though I haven’t previously so I met her with skepticism and self-pity. She promised I wouldn’t continue to feel like this, that the hunger would come back stronger than ever. I intellectually kind of know I’m wallowing in the lowest depths right now but in my heart I’m just not sure about the rest of it. I’m thinking about the passions that sustained me in the past and wondering if I need to give up triathlon and return to music or horseback-riding. (A night of karaoke could help with the wallowing; even more costly and concussion-y with the ponies though.)

I just don’t see a future in endurance sports right now. All those races I gleefully threw my name (and credit card) into? I feel like a fool for thinking I would be healthy enough to do them all. Two full Ironmans! My own KQ one day? What on earth was I thinking? That’s not a goal my body seems to be capable of reaching. I don’t think I can or want to do this sport if I can’t be competitive at it, but how can I be competitive if my body can’t take the work and miles it takes to get faster?

And I don’t want to hear advice about mileage or other ways of training right and smart. I do all the things I’m supposed to do.  Case in pedantic point, below is a noncomprehensive list of all the “right”  things I do to train responsibly:

• I run low mileage – three times a week, sometimes four but the fourth is always a mile or two easy transition run off the bike. I know I can’t run five and six times a week or pile on the dozens of miles I see others do and so I don’t.
• I lift weights which increases bone density
• I’m a triathlete so obviously cross training is a way of life
• I take Vitamin D, calcium, and iron. (All for diagnosed deficiencies and at doctor’s orders.)
• I eat a lot and I eat well. I don’t do sodas or artificial sweeteners or much sugary or fried food, but I also learned from a nutritionist years ago that as an endurance athlete I have to embrace the calories so trust me I replace what I spend.
• I go to physical therapy.
• I take rest days. I had to learn how, but I do it.
• I commute in sneakers. A younger me on the subway vowed to myself that I would never do such a thing, but I got over that and lean right the hell into the sneakers and dress clothes look in the mornings and evenings now.
• I stopped wearing heels as much, and not nearly as high or stiletto-y as I used to. I still have to for work at times but when I don’t need them I don’t touch ’em. And in the office I’m usually just walking around in socks. (Sorry colleagues!)
• I roll my legs, use my Normatecs, take BCAAs and other things to aid recovery between workouts.
• Goes without saying but I don’t smoke or use any drugs. My biggest vice is wine most nights a week and that means 1-2 glasses. A binge is 3 drinks. I’m a cheap date. (Oh except for the food part.)

I feel like I’m in an abusive relationship with this sport and the injuries because every time I’m hurt I try to pin it on something I did. There’s a voice in my head that says this is all my own stupid fault, but that voice is liar. I didn’t do this through poor decision-making or irresponsibility.

The reality is that I have issues with Vitamin D (as do most people, especially fellow women with difficult menstrual cycles) and after bloodwork last week I’ll be on a Vitamin D prescription instead of the otc supplements that clearly weren’t working. I’ve also always had low iron (and I’m shamelessly grateful for not being able to donate blood) and am on supplements for that. On top of those deficiencies, the inhaler I need to breathe includes corticosteroids which impact bone density – but my specific inhaler also interferes less with that birth defect in my heart making it the best option for me overall. That breathing vs. bones vs. heart inhaler situation has always felt lose-lose-lose and I do my best to only use the inhaler when I really need it rather than preventatively. (Which is how it was originally prescribed.)

And a (highly combative) side note to those non-endurance athletes reading this who I know are indulging in even the fleetingest fit of schadenfreude: fuck off. Every time I’m injured people are all too eager to “joke” that it’s because tris and marathons are bad for you and I should do less. You’re all transparently guilty about your own unhealthy decisions. Please re-read the above paragraphs and get it through your heads: I’m an anemic asthmatic with a heart condition and I still get off my ass and have a lower BMI, resting heart rate, and blood pressure than you. (Although the latter is admittedly high as I type [vent] this.)*

Back on the health stuff, I’m also scared about these do-nothing weeks because the thing that got me addicted to fitness was the discovery that exercise is the only thing that keeps my migraines at bay. I haven’t been this inactive for this long since my early twenties and I’m terrified the headaches are going to come back. Of course stressing over them coming back is probably not helping to keep them away. (Fuck does this blog make me sound like some sort of sick-prone invalid. I am not.)

I’m going to try not to end this on a total down note and to reintroduce a dose of perspective into this meditation. I do know that in the scheme of things this is not so bad. There are many far more dire diagnoses in the world – I’ve had a few of them. And in this specific case if the fracture were in a slightly different spot on my femoral head I’d be looking at surgery with screws and hardware instead of crutches.

I also have a teammate, Madi, who was recently diagnosed at a very young age with osteoporosis which is devastating. She’s so talented and strong (just qualified for Worlds!) and wonderful and it’s all just genes and none of it is fair. I have a bone scan Friday so who knows, maybe the same diagnosis is in my future, but in any case I’m not handling my sentence as gracefully as she is hers. She told me something earlier that made me hopeful cry instead of angry cry: Paraphrased (and credited to her coach) she said that the best stories are comeback stories and that time taken away from the sport is only agony because we love it so much.

Honestly ending on that note probably suggests to you dear reader(s) (hello mommy, hello Kim) that I’m in a healthier place than I really am. I still just want to scream, or quit, or binge drink (aka 3 drinks); but I don’t want any of you to have me forcibly committed so I’m trying hope on for a paragraph or two. Going to bed despondent (shit, how will I get upstairs to my bed?) but maybe I will feel (a little) better in the morning. (And if I don’t feel better, I’ll just take it out on my able-bodied 6am bootcamp students. See? Silver lining.)

*That may have gotten meaner than I intended. Considered editing but in the interest of open (and ugly) honesty there it is.