Was it good? Yes. At least it seemed so until the first week of December. It was actually cold enough for me to need a blanket. I think I was able to stand the blanket on my feet for about five minutes before I had to kick it off and try sleeping with just the sheet. Even that hurt. My feet felt like they were on fire. To keep them warm, I tried on nearly every pair of socks until I could find some that didn't feel like scrubbing pads against my toes.
My first thought was my body was having a weird response to anxiety. For the past few months, I'd been sending out plays to theatres and competitions, specs to editors, resumes and job applications to possible employers, and it was starting to wear on me. The only thing I'd been doing that didn't either hurt or make me want to slink off somewhere with a good book was tell stories. How weird was it that the one thing that used to terrify me -getting in front of an audience and speaking- was the only activity that inspired me to say, "I got this?"
At the time it made sense to back off the walking/running and let my feet stop hurting. Only they didn't. It reached a point where there were days when I couldn't stand for anything to touch them. They felt fine. They looked okay. They just hurt.
I contacted a friend in the UK who is an MD and told him about it. He shares my love of Jack London's writing, so he got my reference to the footsore sled dog who flipped over on his back and howled until one of the trail hands tied little deerskin boots to his paws.
"Have you done that yet?" Nigel asked.
It crossed my mind a couple of times, but no. After looking at pictures of my feet, discussing in detail what was going on, and deflecting my temptation to rant about Harper Lee's new book, he said it could be one of two things: fibromyalgia or peripheral neuropathy. Given that I am currently in an argument with my pancreas, the latter seems the most likely.
So where does that leave my plans to run, not to mention my plot to skate and play hockey? I'm not proud of this, but I'll come clean. I was mad and sad. Every time I saw my rec skates looped over the knob on my bedroom closet door, I cried. My treadmill got dusty. I still have not gone through my shoes to rehome the ones that are too snug for comfort, but that's happening soon.
I weighed myself last week. I gained a pound. No. Just...no. That cannot happen. I am by no stretch of the imagination thin or even fit but I have come too far to gain back that weight. To keep the numbers on the scale going in the right direction served as my own call of the mild.
There is a pair of old crocs on my treadmill. Every time I come to a stopping point in my writing or studio work, I put them on and do a five to ten minute walk. It's not the running/walking program I was using a month ago, but it is me moving and that counts. Walking/running my way to that first 5K is not off the table, it's just further away.
copyright 2016 Jas Faulkner/ Zen Dixie