3: The Bloody Injury

Warning:  Graphic, bloody photos to follow.  If you don't like blood, don't read this post.

Let me rephrase that.

If you don't like REAL blood pouring out of a REAL wound, don't read it.  If you like to watch The Walking Dead, but cannot handle a bloody knee, you shouldn't continue.

:)

Wednesday was a 5:30am wake up call; once again, I woke up at 3:48am.  This was after falling into bed around 9pm, but according to Facebook, my last post was at 10:43pm.

I seemed to be wanting carbs at 10:43pm

That looks really good, doesn't it?  If you haven't as of yet discovered Culver's ButterBurgers, you are sadly missing out, my friend.

Excuse me, for a moment.

Chipotle Hummus on a burger:  Genius.

Alright, I feel better now.

Wednesday - 3:48am...and I figure I've got a long day ahead of me.  Make the very controversial decision to eat breakfast.

I hate breakfast.

Almost as much as exercise.

In fact, the few times I eat breakfast, it's only to be polite (although my choice of runny eggs is anything but.)  I rarely if ever eat breakfast at home, and we certainly didn't have anything at home (Paleo man frowns on snacks) so I did something rather forbidden in the fitness world.  I went here:

I'm lovin' it.

I got a coffee and a Bacon, Egg & Cheese Biscuit.  Mrs. Paleo took over and I threw out the biscuit and ate just the cheese, egg and bacon.  Perfect little bite of protein, right?  Sooooo wrong.  I my effort to "be healthy" I only made myself nauseated.

Day three of boot camp was known as "core-nado" - basically sets of core strengthening exercises.  By the time we were 3/4's through, I was sick to my stomach.  I knew it was my breakfast, and I don't care what anyone says - a piece of bacon, a piece of cheese and a folded over egg from McDonald's is as freaking Adkins as you can get.  Protein, protein, protein.  It was the act of eating breakfast itself that had made me sick.

It always has.

I started refusing breakfast in 6th grade, when I got up for school by myself and my mother still slept.  She tried everything to get me to eat breakfast - Carnation Instant Breakfasts (OH MY WORD - THIS IS WHY I HATE SHAKES!!!  AARON HAIRSTON, TAKE NOTE!!) which I would choke down, Chicken Little sandwiches from KFC, breakfast bars (Aaron - see a pattern?) you name it, she tried it.  I always felt sick after I ate - nothing could stay in my stomach and stay settled.  In time she gave up, and I restricted my breakfasts to restaurants and rare days when I woke up craving pancakes with peaches (it does happen.)  If I did choke down a breakfast, I found I was hungry at 11am - which was equally ridiculous, as normally I wasn't hungry until 1pm.  Although every fitness article in the world tells you breakfast is good, I did my own research (remember I'm a trained historian.  We LOVE to research.)  I found this out:

1)  Breakfast is an invention of the rich.  Until the mid 1800's and the habits of the upper class extending to the lower classes, only two meals a day were served since millenia:  a midday meal and dinner.  That's it.  Most people couldn't afford to eat three times a day.

2)  Breakfast is perpetuated on the masses by cereal companies, diet companies and fitness companies wanting to make money on the masses.  It' a freaking conspiracy, man.

I don't always eat breakfast, but when I do, it's usually with Ian.

So I get sick, don't puke, and drink more water.  I talk to Sgt. Steve about it, who confirms breakfast is a conspiracy theory.  (Just kidding.  He told me to listen to my body.  I was refreshed by his outlook, to be honest.)  Class is over, and a stupid aura migraine starts.  They look like this:

Why driving is impossible with an aura migraine.

They only last about thirty minutes,  so I wait it out at the gym.  I post it on Facebook, because if one keeps busy during an aura migraine, a headache after is less likely.  I figure once it clears, I'll just head out to Thumb Butte and work on this blog before my hike with Ian.  Right?

I power up my hotspot, and start formatting the blog; picking out the template and all that good stuff.  I start writing (finally, this had been weighing on my mind as I knew I should have started some time ago) and the car begins to get cold.  I check the outside temperature - it's 29 degrees.  I check the time - it's 8:30am.  Hmm.  I last saw Ian yesterday...did we talk about hiking today (no.)  Did we talk about it Monday after we cancelled due to rain (yes.  It was the last thing we talked about after art.)  In the meantime, a group of 20+ senior citizens are preparing to take the hike up the butte.  They are adorned in full-on hiking gear, as if they'd be gone awhile.  I text Ian.

"Are we hiking today?"

The response:  "I saw you had a migraine on Facebook and assumed you'd want to cancel."

Oh, really.  You assumed.

I'm still nauseated, and flipping freezing in my car.  I need a hike to warm up and rid my stomach of this vicious feeling, and you assumed???

After a few back and forths, he finally arrived at the Butte.  While admitting he was glad I had dragged him out there, he insisted we hurry as he had "so much to do."

Like I didn't.

The hike, at first, seemed good.  It was up my beloved "easy side," and I actually managed to hold up my end of the conversation for a time.  Then the dreaded air gasping started.  It was my first true attack with the air monster, who would not let me draw a breath.  I literally stopped five times, trying to catch my breath to no avail.  Not that it was worrisome, it wasn't.  It was just miserable, and my hiking partner was always at least 40 paces ahead of me.  Unable to keep up, I simply stopped.  I had been pushing it to do the class back to back with a hike, and the lack of sleep was catching up.  I tried to think of a day when this would no longer be the case, when I could do this without being winded.  Approaching the top, I saw Ian off to the side, being passed by that group of twenty senior citizens who had just successfully negotiated the steep side.  I was utterly dismayed to see women twice my age had successfully completed what I knew was an impossibility for me without breathlessness.  One of the old guys started teasing Ian about coming up "the easy way."  He motioned back to me.  "It's her fault - she can't keep up."

While admittedly true, I was appalled that he'd throw me under the bus without hesitation.  He just laughed, and assured me that he loved throwing me under the bus when I deserved it.  I reminded him that I knew how to write.

The rest of our hike was easy - down the steep side, which he admitted killed his legs.  It was still pretty cold, in the mid-thirties, and the trail was wet from the rains the day before.  Just before the parking lot, I stepped on a patch of black ice (thinking it was just water - this Michigan native totally had a brain fart.)  My right foot shot forward as I went down, and I felt my body do the most amazing thing.  Instead of just falling, I caught myself by holding a forward lunge - only my left knee hit the pavement with force.  My left hand went down for balance, but my strong right thigh held me up.  Thinking back, I can imagine the mess I would have been in days past in a similar situation - a bruised thigh, twisted hips, scraped up hands - it should have been brutal.  Ian was of course immediately concerned, apologizing for not warning me about the ice.  (I thought this interesting.  I'm married to a former cop, and he apologizes for nothing.  Ian, on the other hand, apologizes like a normal personal would.  I am so not used to it.)  I hopped right up, assuring him I was fine.  My hand was unscathed, and although my knee had took a pounding, I assumed the capri's I was wearing had protected the skin when I went down.  I was so sure, I didn't even look at it.

So we get to the parking lot, and Ian pops open his tailgate to change out of his boots.  We are chatting when I feel something strange on my leg.  Like something is creeping down it.  I am surprised to see that much blood.

I start laughing, looking for something to mop it up with.  Swinging off my pack, I grab my sweatshirt and slide it up my shin while balancing my leg on the tailgate.  I tie it around my leg, so that I can get out my first aid kit.  The cold air had numbed my knee, rendering me clueless to the extent of my injury five minutes prior.

You should have seen it before I mopped it with my sweatshirt.

The pebble is visible in this one.

 In all fairness, I knew Ian was in a hurry.  He had mentioned that several times earlier in the day.  The speed in which he packed up, and said good-bye, however, led me to believe that he was fairly uncomfortable with the site of so much blood (and there was a lot.  It kinda looked like I'd been shot.)  I hobbled over to my car, and began the process of cleaning it.  First with cool water, then with antiseptic.  I took the pictures and sent them to my husband, the King of Athletics of the Central Highlands.  Imagine my surprise to get concern in  response:

Knock me over with a feather; he seems genuinely concerned.

Crown Royal?

I headed from Thumb Butte to my appointment (that had been delayed due to Ian, but hey, no big deal, right?  Not like I had things to do) where trainer Ginger of Fit2Zen was quite concerned for my leg.  (Apparently my knowledge of an embedded pebble worried people.)  From there I went to Tec Rehab to meet Micah, who happened to have called when I left Thumb Butte.  He assured me my hiking gear and bloody knee only added to my charm, and we sat down just as this happened:

aka The Zombie Apocalypse

A cable was cut just north of Phoenix, and all of Arizona lost cell and internet.  Unless you had worthless Verizon, which I did.  That was providential, because a few minutes later, this arrives:

Stay strong?  I skinned my knee, not broke my leg.

An unsolicited text at 1:08pm?  From my husband?  Will wonders never cease?

I headed home, and took a hot shower, taking time to pick the pebble out of my knee.  I only found one big band-aid, but it was enough.  After cleaning, it didn't look so bad.

Now if only it didn't flipping sting so much.

The rest of the evening was a blur - it was a "little date" with my 6'2" son to attend an aviation history lecture at Embry Riddle, but it was proceeded by dinner at Taj Mahal.

Lamb Boti Masala has NEVER tasted so good.

Sleep finally came early for once, and I was over the hump for the first week of my Fitness Quest.