Doctor visit number three

This morning I went out for a 15-mile run. My foot was hurting -- it has been for the past few weeks -- but I figured I could tough it out. Then on mile 5 the pain turned from throbbing to shooting, and I couldn't breath for a second. So I limped out another 4 miles, decided I was doing my body more harm than good, and went to the doctor.

Now before we go on with this story, let's just stop and look at that last sentence. Not the first part, because I've never been one of those nuts who will sacrifice her long-term health for athletic achievement. No, the "went to the doctor" part.

It's no secret that I hate doctors. I've been to the doctor twice since I graduated from college. The first was three years ago, when I had bronchitis. I was about two months into teaching then, and I was still determined not to miss a day of work. Ever. I went to an in-service day with a 103 fever, but by the end of the day I was pretty much delirious. So I went to Care Now. I couldn't sit up by then, so I lay curled up in a ball on the table while the doctor did whatever he needed to do to me. I really don't remember. I know he shot me full of steroids and gave me a prescription and I paid the $25 copay and tried to get a few hours of sleep before teaching the next morning.

The second time was almost exactly a year later, when I again had bronchitis, this time during my second year of teaching, and in Mexico. My principal made me go that time. I wrote about it right here.

That's it, though. I really don't like doctors. I don't like that they doubt you and suggest that everything's in your head, and then sometimes they can't find the answer and you start thinking it really is in your head.

But I figured a foot injury would be different. With a foot injury, they take an x-ray of it and can see exactly what's wrong. Just a simple your-foot-is-hurt-or-it's-not.

So I went to Care Now, because doc-in-the-box doctors are my favorite type (no, I don't have commitment issues). I didn't bother changing or showering or stopping by home first. Running clothes, salty skin, no grading to distract me from Madagascar or whatever movie would be playing. (I still have memories of "I Like to Move It," repeating again and again in the waiting room while I lay shivering on a chair delirious with fever.)

The office wasn't as anxious to get this done as I was, though. They told me to leave and they'd call me in 45 minutes. So I went to my parents' house, which was only a few minutes away, and told my sister she could go out for a run while I watched the kids and showered. Twenty minutes later, halfway through my shower, my phone rang. They were ready. I threw on some clothes, told the boys (who are old enough to be home alone for short periods) that their sister would be home in ten minutes, and told the four-year-old she was coming to the doctor with me.



Boys settled down with school work, shoes found for the little one, and we were ready to get in the minivan. But there were no car seats. The kid probably weighs close to what I do, but new laws require that children are in car seats until they're about 20. I searched around, and I thought of my slot that was probably being given to someone else, then I decided screw it, we were only a couple minutes away anyway, I'd drive slow.

So I did, and the kid did great, and I got x-rays of my foot that prove that it suffers from no more than a strained tendon. Usually I'm afraid of an "it's just" diagnosis, because it means that all my complaining was for naught. But this time I'm pretty glad. I got instructions to ice it and avoid running for at least a week (BUT WHAT ABOUT TRAINING?!?) and a prescription for pain meds that I won't fill. And that's that. Problem solved.