The One with the Broken Toe

So I had this fantastic post planned about why I ran the half. 

Funny how nature had other plans. 

Last Sunday, I'd come in from my training run, was enjoying my frapp, and was getting ready to go some yardwork, when thunk.

I dropped my laptop on my left foot. Specifically, that place on your foot where the second toe in -- the one next to the pinky toe -- meets the foot. 

It hurt. A lot. But I could move my toes. And it was swollen, but not horribly swollen.

So I went out and did the yardwork anyway. 

It was still sore when I went to bed, and a bit red, but meh. 

But it was still sore when I got up, and more swollen, and now with a bit of a bruise. That by the end of the day had spread to cover a good 1/3 of my foot. 

I debated whether or not to go to Urgent Care Monday night. Largely because I didn't want them to tell me to not run. Fortunately -- or unfortunately -- I figured that OK, that was a sign of the eating disorder yelling, because any rational person wouldn't think that.

So I went. And they x-rayed it promptly. And then informed me that I had a displaced fracture, where the toe met the foot. And that I needed to be in a walking boot -- except not as high as the ankle fracture ones. And on crutches. 

And that I shouldn't run. 

I argued with the PA. She told me she couldn't tell me not to run, but that she could only advise against it. 

And then they showed me how to walk on crutches. 

And I went to the car and cried.

This was more than just a run. This was showing that I could do this. And that I could work hard, and that I could do something I'd set my mind to -- and that I could say "Fuck you," to all of those people who had ever made me feel less than. Or who had told me that I couldn't do something. Or who had made me feel like I didn't know what I was doing. Or that I was bad in gym. Or bad at work. 

And then I cried again. And went to Whole Foods, where I hobbled on crutches to the pizza counter, and then back to my car, and kept telling people that no, I didn't need help.

And then I cried again. And got home and made a very stiff drink. 

That was when I realized that this wasn't about the race. This was entirely mental. That I could lose the money, and that would hurt like hell, but that I would also lose this opportunity -- and even though it would come again, what wouldn't go away would be the knowledge that this weekend, my body fucked me over again. 

And I could not deal with that again. 

So I posted to my alma mater's fitness group. And got a lot of answers I didn't like. And argued back. 

And I went to the ortho appointment. And finally, got relief. Was assured that the PA was overreacting a bit, and although it was very thoroughly broken, running wouldn't cause any more damage. No need for crutches. No need for taping, unless I thought it would help the inevitable pain that came with running 13.1 miles on a broken toe. 

"It's going to be very angry at you," the orthopedist warned.

I told him I could take it. 

Did I run the half? Absolutely. 

And I blew my training times out of the water. Not only did I finish, but I ran faster than I ever imagined possible. And that was amazing to find out. 

And that's how I ran a half marathon with a displaced fracture.