-Please don't tell me it's runner's knee, were the first words out of my mouth when I walked into the doctor's office.
Ten minutes later, he looked at me and smiled.
-It's runner's knee, he said.
He had twisted my leg this way and that, pressed his thumb all over my knee and observed my legs while I stood before him. It hadn't hurt anywhere, no matter how he twisted my leg, so the diagnosis (lacking, I suppose, a better one, since it didn't hurt) was runner's knee.
A prescription of diclofenac for two weeks, insoles for my over-pronation, no running for a month and a visit to the physiotherapist is the course of action now. I know what you're about to say, and lemme stop you right there. Yeah, it could be worse. It could have been six months. I could be sitting in a wheelchair. But I wonder if people say the same to the guy in the wheelchair? It could be worse? You could be tetraplegic? Or to the cancer patient with three months to live: hey! Cheer up! It could be worse. It could just be ONE month! And how about if you had burned your toast this morning! JUST THINK HOW MUCH WORSE IT COULD BE. Don't you feel guilty about whining now, my little bald friend?
It could be that my brain put everything the doctor said through the ”I hate you for bringing me bad news” filter, but he seemed to be enjoying this. He said ”Well, when you run as much as you do, you're bound to get injured” and I swear. That smug bastard gloated. Like, serves you right you stupid cow for having ambitions. And I hadn't even told him how much I'd run in Skövde, or how much I'd like to be able to run in the future. I think I'll save that information for people who are more...like-minded.
|I went for a walk in the woods afterwards. Walking is too slow but at least you get to see more.|
Hey, you know what's exactly a month from now? That is to say, on the first day I'm supposed to be able to run again? Göteborgsvarvet! I'm going to walk it if I have to.