The grand unveiling is moments away--and I could barely look.

The grand unveiling is moments away–and I could barely look.

I realize I’m nervous for my June 11 appointment with my orthopedic surgeon when I find myself biting off nearly all my fingernails the afternoon before. Both thumbs, left pinky, ring finger, middle finger. A Valium helps me sleep that night, but the next morning, after Jack drops me off and I clomp on my iWalk to the doctor’s office by myself, my heart is racing as fast as my brain. “What if…” scenarios are doing 4-minute miles in my head:

What if the healing isn’t happening as fast as I hope?

What if the doctor keeps me in the cast longer? 

What if I get a boot…but it’s non-weight-bearing? 

While I can't run miles, I can put yards and yards of needlepoint yarns to good use. This canvas will eventually be made into a doorstop, encasing a brick from the hospital where I was born.

While I can’t run miles, I can put yards and yards of needlepoint yarns to good use. This canvas will eventually be made into a doorstop, encasing a brick from the hospital where I was born.

To calm down, I start needlepointing. Occupy the hands, not the brain, I tell myself. Still feeling jangly, I look around the otherwise-deserted waiting room…and cue up Peter Gabriel on my iPhone. The soothing tones of “Down to Earth” ratchet down my anxiety a notch or two, but I continue playing music as a tech cuts off the cast and takes X-rays. I switch to John Mayer, and he eases my nerves a bit, but waiting alone in an exam room for the results, I kick the music into high gear. On comes “Boston, baby!,” my playlist from 2012 Boston Marathon. I listen to Gotye’s “In Your Light” while visualizing memories from that 26.2.

Paula, a physician assistant with a bright smile, enters the room, and we talk needlepointing for a bit. Then we turn our attention from my koi-pond canvas to the ankle X-rays. Beaming, Paula says everything is healing really well, pointing out how well aligned the breaks were healing–no jagged, bony bits sticking out. (My words, not hers.) When she gets to an image showcasing the biggest remaining fracture, it appears to me like a gaping chasm between the two pieces of bone, but Paula blithely says, “And that’ll fill in nicely with new bone growth,” as confidently as I’d say my 9-year-old twins would be rowdy when they get out of school that afternoon.

Paula tells me she expects the doctor to put me in a non-weight-bearing boot, and my face falls. She immediately asks what’s wrong, and I croak out, “I really, really want a weigh-bearing boot.” Her tone a trifle less cheerful, Paula says the final decision is up to the doctor.

Cue the X-ray.

Looking back, instead of playing random John Mayer music, I should have cued up “Bigger Than My Body” or “Waiting on the World to Change” during the X-ray session.

As if on cue, in walks Dr. B. The slender, charcoal-haired surgeon knows how much running means to me and how ardently I want to be active again. After a quick perusal of the X-rays, Dr. B. casually announces, “Let’s get you in a weight-bearing boot.”

My reaction is immediate and visceral: I burst into tears.

With tears springing from my scrunched-shut eyes, I hear Paula explain to the obviously confused doctor, “That’s the news she wanted…. No, no, don’t worry: Those are happy tears.” I continue crying but try to pull myself together. When I finally open my eyes, a befuddled Dr. B. sits close to me, proffering me a box of tissues. I assure him he’s given me the scenario I’d been (nervously!) daydreaming about; I thank him profusely.

Boot on, ready to take first step (which was a doozy: felt like 100s of flaming pins shot into my ankle).

Boot on, ready to take first step–which was a doozy: felt like 100s of flaming pins shot into my ankle. To ease into weight-bearing, I used a single crutch to hobble. Immediately set a goal: Lose the crutch by Monday.

As I wipe away my tears, Dr. B. gives me the lay of the land for the next few weeks. Several times a day, I’m to gently flex my ankle/foot forward and back, using a towel or strap to help as it loosens up a bit. In two weeks, he’ll see me again and if all continues to look good, he’ll give me the all-clear to see a talented physical therapist whose office is less than a half-mile from our house. He assures me, “We’ll get you back to exercise, probably starting with pool walking.” I don’t dare inquire about running, but he doesn’t look dismissive when I ask about barre class and riding a stationary bike in mid-July.

I make my way don the hall to get fitted for the weight-bearing boot solo: I don’t need to be accompanied by Peter Gabriel, John Mayer, or Gotye.

Two days post-cast, and already I'm racing Kara Goucher--at least in my mind. In reality, I was upright, crutch free, and happy at party at new Foot Traffic store in Portland, where they unveiled chainsaw sculpture of Kara.

Two days post-cast, and already I’m racing Kara Goucher–at least in my mind. In reality, I was upright, crutch free, and happy at party at new Foot Traffic store, where they unveiled chainsaw sculpture of Kara. (Yes, I know: only in Portlandia!)

Post-script: Back home, ready to work, and in the boot, I gaze out French doors in front of my desk toward the blooming lavender in our neighbor’s yard. I marvel at the abundance of almost-ripe plums on a tree shading our driveway. As I let the progress of my ankle recovery settle in, I am left with one pure belief that I tweet: 

“Prayers & positive vibes from Another #MotherRunner tribe worked: cast off; weight-bearing boot. Best possible outcome for today. THANK YOU!”

It bears repeating in stereo: THANK YOU all for your continued support, love, and advice. I treasure it all.