The past week has been the biggest emotional roller coaster I've experienced in a long time. It started out with a really great morning run on Monday, in which I actually ran (yay!!!) with my team, followed by half a race on Tuesday (I was too scared to try and run the whole thing, not wanting to push myself). Wednesday, I was able to enjoy a great long run, and Thursday I ran an entire workout! Slowly dreams of running at state inched their way back into my heart, maybe I could make it if I just tried hard enough in these next few weeks. Quickly I pushed these thoughts away, wanting to focus on the blessing of the moment, of every hour spent running with my team. The week culminated in celebration as my teammates and I ran to a park for shared laughter, games and ice cream. By the end of that week I was so happy to be running with my team: laughing with them, exploring with them, sweating through hard runs with them and eating well earned ice cream, together.
The following day we all traveled to St.Joe for a meet, and I thoroughly enjoyed running with my friends during the warm up, giving them encouragement for the race ahead. I ran some more during the race, trying my hardest to cheer in all the right places, full of excitement for how well they were doing. Our cool down run together was just as great, relishing in personal bests and a race well run and we laughed and sang as we jogged through the streets. Then I tripped unexpectedly, crushing my foot against the sidewalk and wrenching my ankle. "Ow!" I exclaimed, more out of surprise than pain. "Go ahead guys, I'm just going to head back" I called, not too far from the school, and unworried about walking it out. I figured that the pain would probably disappear quickly, just like every other time I've rolled an ankle. But by the time I got back to camp pain was shooting through my foot and ankle. Taking off my shoe revealed an already purple and swollen mass. I quickly sat down, and got some ice, then pulled my assistant coach aside to show her what had happened. We both stared down at my foot for a few seconds before I blurted "It hurts really bad." As soon as those words left my mouth I realized the severity of what had just happened. Soon I was trying to choke back tears as the hopes of running in a few races before the end of the season slipped away- pushed away by my ballooning foot and ankle. My swelling emotions took a nosedive, leaving me sitting on top of the water cooler in the middle of camp with tears streaming down my face and sobs wracking my body. Yet, it was not long before I looked up to see the worried faces of all of my friends, sliding their hands into mine, hugging me, holding me. My teammates are so supportive.
For the next few hours I was tenderly comforted by friends who should have been rejoicing over great races, but instead were drying my tears and holding my hand. It was amazing to see how much they cared; I felt so loved. And though it now looks like the season is gone for good, I realize what a blessing those few runs with them were, and really what a blessing an entire season with them has been. I cannot express how much love and gratitude I feel for them, for their support and love for me. Though I'm not able to run with them, we are still a team, together. That is the biggest blessing of all.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
To Run Again
"Enjoy this because it's probably the last time we'll actually be the same speed!" These were my words to my mom as we headed out for a run on Sunday, my first real, pleasureful run over a mile since July. I was so excited, even to go slow. I had waited so long, pining for the chance to pound the turf, and completely restricted. Before this day I would never have run with my "slow" mom. But today my recovering injury put us on the same level, and I was content with that. Our little jaunt of celebration seemed right. She has been, after all, the greatest support to me through this injury process.
At the end of July I injured my achilles tendon. The doctor warned me that recovery would be slow, most likely taking me out of action for the whole cross country season. My last cross country season. I was so upset, so angry, but I rose to meet this challenge in a new way, and grew up a little bit throughout the next month and a half. But I certainly could not have done it without my mother. When I doubted God's plan for my season, she filled me with faith. When I didn't know how I would heal she bought special creams and stretching blocks. Most importantly, she prayed, holding my foot in her hands every night and asking God for guidance and healing. Her arms were the ones that comforted me, her hands those that dried my tears. Her words were the words that lifted me up through little notes, or small praises and encouragement. My mom was by my side through it all, hurting more than I did in that way that only mother's can.
And here she was, still beside me, running, and smiling between heavy breathes as she watched me, grinning from ear to ear. So slow but still running. It felt wrong in so many ways, too slow, too brief, my shoes heavy with new orthotics and my breath short. But in more ways it felt so right. The movement, the steady pounding rhythm, sharpened awareness of beauty all around. I was filled with hope, that maybe I would run with the team this season, maybe I would even compete! The window of desire that I had closed in the pain of hopes that do not come to pass, was now open and the air rushing past brought new dreams in with the old. Gratitude flowed from my heart out through my smile and into my stride. Gratitude for the people who had supported me, the team that still loved me, and the God who was healing me faster than anyone predicted. Gratitude for my mother. I felt like pumping my fists in the air saying "look ma, I'm running!" but instead I just beamed at her and trotted around the neighborhood. It felt right to be running with my mom. Though I may have once called her "slow," her love and support throughout the whole injury process certainly justified her presence in this celebration of healing.
Constructive criticism please!
At the end of July I injured my achilles tendon. The doctor warned me that recovery would be slow, most likely taking me out of action for the whole cross country season. My last cross country season. I was so upset, so angry, but I rose to meet this challenge in a new way, and grew up a little bit throughout the next month and a half. But I certainly could not have done it without my mother. When I doubted God's plan for my season, she filled me with faith. When I didn't know how I would heal she bought special creams and stretching blocks. Most importantly, she prayed, holding my foot in her hands every night and asking God for guidance and healing. Her arms were the ones that comforted me, her hands those that dried my tears. Her words were the words that lifted me up through little notes, or small praises and encouragement. My mom was by my side through it all, hurting more than I did in that way that only mother's can.
And here she was, still beside me, running, and smiling between heavy breathes as she watched me, grinning from ear to ear. So slow but still running. It felt wrong in so many ways, too slow, too brief, my shoes heavy with new orthotics and my breath short. But in more ways it felt so right. The movement, the steady pounding rhythm, sharpened awareness of beauty all around. I was filled with hope, that maybe I would run with the team this season, maybe I would even compete! The window of desire that I had closed in the pain of hopes that do not come to pass, was now open and the air rushing past brought new dreams in with the old. Gratitude flowed from my heart out through my smile and into my stride. Gratitude for the people who had supported me, the team that still loved me, and the God who was healing me faster than anyone predicted. Gratitude for my mother. I felt like pumping my fists in the air saying "look ma, I'm running!" but instead I just beamed at her and trotted around the neighborhood. It felt right to be running with my mom. Though I may have once called her "slow," her love and support throughout the whole injury process certainly justified her presence in this celebration of healing.
Constructive criticism please!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)