It all started in September 2010, when I took a nasty spill down the stairs thanks to a ginormous load of laundry and a slippery step. After writhing on the floor for a few minutes, I figured that I'd try out my throbbing ankle to see if I'd broken it. It hurt, but I could walk ok and I didn't see any bones poking out. I even grabbed some frozen peas to ice it down and prevent swelling before I limped off to finish my wifely duties at the grocery store for the day.
That night it hurt so bad I couldn't even get off the sofa to go pee! I had to scoot on the floor from the sofa to the bathroom and lord knows I had to take the stairs by scooting up one at a time on my rear. The next day I made it down to the couch for breakfast and I didn't move again for 36 hours. It took me three months to go see a doctor-- Why, you ask? Because I'm like that. I kept thinking it would heal on its own. After all, it was only a sprained ankle. The doctor that I finally saw was a podiatrist. He wanted to jam a needle in my ankle and give me a cortisone shot. I said no thanks (because my Internet research had told me that cortisone actually impedes ligament healing time and I hate needles) and limped out with a brace instead.... a brace that cost me the last bits of my ankle mobility and nearly 400 buckaroos after the freaking insurance monies paid. Yes.. after insurance that dang brace was $400! In January, I made an appointment with an orthopaedist. He told me the brace made my ankle worse by weakening it further and prescribed some physical therapy.
Finally I started to see some improvement! I went from not being able to walk without a limp to being able to walk gently uphill and finally to being able to jog again. At this point, It had been 5 months since I'd gotten any cardio... 5 months since I'd run a mile or even been able to walk a lap around the neighborhood. Don't let that happen to you friends. It's not pretty.
In the springtime when I was able to run one mile again (albeit wheezing and breathing like a banshee), my friend talked me into signing up for a half-marathon in October and I said yes because I needed a big goal to get back to my old self... my wedding self if you know what I mean. All spring and summer I huffed and I puffed and I ran my tush around the neighborhood so many times that I swear I wore a new path in the asphalt. The months flew by. I was doing great. I could run 3, 4, 5, even 6 miles at a time! Then I got this thing called a "new job," and I started this thing called a "new semester" in graduate school. By the time October rolled around, the furthest I could run was still 6 miles...less than half of the 13.1 required to complete my upcoming race.