Ask any runner what
their worst nightmare is and a majority of them would probably put “getting
injured” on the top of their list.
Little did I know that shortly after completing the 2009 Hamilton Marathon with “relative ease”, I’d be willing to trade anything for that nightmarish scenario over what would transpire on me.
On the Monday following the marathon (24 hours after completion), I began to experience 2 distinct issues on my left foot. 1) My ankle felt like I sprained it and 2) there was an insatiable itch on my 2nd metatarsal (toe). This was only the beginning of what I would simply call “my path to living hell”.
Within 48 hours my left foot began to get inflamed and swollen. The swelling was not very prominent. In fact, I would even limp over to my brother’s room to ask him if I was imagining things. His impression was the same as mine. It didn’t appear that bad. I thought, “I will call doctor tomorrow and make an appointment if it doesn’t improve slightly by the next morning.”
Within 72 hours, my foot did not improve. In fact, my 5th metatarsal now had an insatiable itch as well. So I called my family physician and was told that the earliest available time would be Friday. The two days between were mentally challenging. I spent every available moment Googling possible reasons for my condition. The result? Best-case scenario: Gout. Worst-case scenario: Metatarsal stress fracture.
On the Friday of my appointment, my physician examines my foot and tells it appears most likely to be gout (I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and tell her how very wrong she was) and prescribed me a prescription for it.
Little did I know that shortly after completing the 2009 Hamilton Marathon with “relative ease”, I’d be willing to trade anything for that nightmarish scenario over what would transpire on me.
On the Monday following the marathon (24 hours after completion), I began to experience 2 distinct issues on my left foot. 1) My ankle felt like I sprained it and 2) there was an insatiable itch on my 2nd metatarsal (toe). This was only the beginning of what I would simply call “my path to living hell”.
Within 48 hours my left foot began to get inflamed and swollen. The swelling was not very prominent. In fact, I would even limp over to my brother’s room to ask him if I was imagining things. His impression was the same as mine. It didn’t appear that bad. I thought, “I will call doctor tomorrow and make an appointment if it doesn’t improve slightly by the next morning.”
Within 72 hours, my foot did not improve. In fact, my 5th metatarsal now had an insatiable itch as well. So I called my family physician and was told that the earliest available time would be Friday. The two days between were mentally challenging. I spent every available moment Googling possible reasons for my condition. The result? Best-case scenario: Gout. Worst-case scenario: Metatarsal stress fracture.
On the Friday of my appointment, my physician examines my foot and tells it appears most likely to be gout (I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and tell her how very wrong she was) and prescribed me a prescription for it.
3 weeks had passed
since I finished the Hamilton Marathon and I also completed the gout medication
but with no improvement. In fact, things got worse. At this point, I was
completely unable to bear weight on my left foot. So I made another appointment
with my physician.
Upon meeting up with my physician, she orders an ultrasound because she believes that it must be blood infection. We end up having a slight argument as I contend that she should not rule out a stress fracture because the injury was precipitated by a running event. She finally relents and agrees to order an x-ray.
A week after that appointment, I go back to my physician find out the results of both tests: Negative for blood infection and stress fracture. Another argument ensues as I dispute that an X-ray is not the best tool to diagnose a metatarsal stress fracture since more often than not, the tears are too small to show up on X-rays. She says that if it is indeed a stress fracture, the best approach for treatment is no weight-bearing activity for up 12 weeks and suggested different techniques to immobilize my toes.
Upon meeting up with my physician, she orders an ultrasound because she believes that it must be blood infection. We end up having a slight argument as I contend that she should not rule out a stress fracture because the injury was precipitated by a running event. She finally relents and agrees to order an x-ray.
A week after that appointment, I go back to my physician find out the results of both tests: Negative for blood infection and stress fracture. Another argument ensues as I dispute that an X-ray is not the best tool to diagnose a metatarsal stress fracture since more often than not, the tears are too small to show up on X-rays. She says that if it is indeed a stress fracture, the best approach for treatment is no weight-bearing activity for up 12 weeks and suggested different techniques to immobilize my toes.
Let’s just say that the
best way to describe the next 12 weeks would be “a personal hell”. I have no
doubt in my mind that I was an insufferable prick. Why would I say that?
Because as any injured runner can attest, any extended injury normally make
runners a bit “snippy”. However, combine that with the fact that I am fiercely
independent makes for a bad scenario. I refused help with anything. Examples
include:
-I would shimmy down the stairs from my bedroom so I could cook my own meals and hop with the finished dish to the dining table (If my brother attempted to help, I would throw the kitchen sponge/dish rag/whatever-was-within-reach at him)
-I would shimmy down all the way to the basement to do laundry (eventually I did relent and let my brother take care of that aspect for me)
-I would shimmy down the stairs from my bedroom so I could cook my own meals and hop with the finished dish to the dining table (If my brother attempted to help, I would throw the kitchen sponge/dish rag/whatever-was-within-reach at him)
-I would shimmy down all the way to the basement to do laundry (eventually I did relent and let my brother take care of that aspect for me)
-Christmas shopping.
Let’s just say that an injured runner, a crowded shopping store and an ‘overly
helpful sales rep’ make for a very bad combination. When the sales rep took the
items from my hand and power-walked it to his cash register, I stormed out.
As the 12th week
approached, I was becoming less optimistic that my foot would heal in time. In
fact, my foot was so swollen that I could no longer wear a shoe on my left
foot.
And after 13 weeks, I
went back to my physician who promptly told me that she had no other
suggestions other than to go to the hospital and get a second diagnosis from an
ER doctor.
Going to hospital was no picnic.
After waiting for what appeared to be an eternity before a physician actually saw me, he said that it could possibly be a severe stress fracture. And ordered a consult with an orthopedic surgeon, who then just simply ordered a CT scan and a bone-density scan. The only thing that those tests were able to prove was that my left leg was severely atrophied and also was beginning to experience osteoporosis. No stress fracture. So the orthopedic surgeon pawned me back to the ER. However, since the original ER physician was now performing a surgery, I got a new physician.
This is where things went from worse to horrible.
Unbeknownst to me, the new physician was about an hour away from finishing his shift. So he was not overly receptive, focused or concerned. In fact, he simply suggested that I “go home, take some NSAIDs and get some rest.”
I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.
What. The. Fuck.
Going to hospital was no picnic.
After waiting for what appeared to be an eternity before a physician actually saw me, he said that it could possibly be a severe stress fracture. And ordered a consult with an orthopedic surgeon, who then just simply ordered a CT scan and a bone-density scan. The only thing that those tests were able to prove was that my left leg was severely atrophied and also was beginning to experience osteoporosis. No stress fracture. So the orthopedic surgeon pawned me back to the ER. However, since the original ER physician was now performing a surgery, I got a new physician.
This is where things went from worse to horrible.
Unbeknownst to me, the new physician was about an hour away from finishing his shift. So he was not overly receptive, focused or concerned. In fact, he simply suggested that I “go home, take some NSAIDs and get some rest.”
I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.
What. The. Fuck.
Let me repeat that:
What. The. FUCK.
At this moment, I am
fed up and tell the nurse that I would like a second opinion from another
physician. She informs me that I would be put back into the waiting queue if
that is what I really want. So what I thought would be another eternity of
waiting, it turns out that eternity would only be about 45 minutes. As a I got
another physician to diagnose me. She took a look at my discolored/inflamed
foot, my severely atrophied calf, my scans and said that there was “definitely
something wrong”. She steps out of the exam room to speak to the previous
physician at the nurses’ station. I overheard him say, “He just wants
painkillers” and “I’m telling you, it’s psychological.” At that moment, I want
to throw my shoe at him. But since it was still winter, I didn’t want to crutch
back to my car barefoot.
After about 10 minutes, she returns to tell me that she will be disregarding the previous physician’s diagnosis. In fact, she would end up calling a prominent vascular surgeon from another hospital to come diagnose my condition, albeit the surgeon would not be able to come down to city to diagnose me for at least 2 days.
Those 2 days could not come soon enough. But it finally does. And so I return back to the hospital.
After about 10 minutes, she returns to tell me that she will be disregarding the previous physician’s diagnosis. In fact, she would end up calling a prominent vascular surgeon from another hospital to come diagnose my condition, albeit the surgeon would not be able to come down to city to diagnose me for at least 2 days.
Those 2 days could not come soon enough. But it finally does. And so I return back to the hospital.
The surgeon performs
what appeared to be three simple diagnostic tests. And says, “Your condition
does not appear to be vascular in nature.” My heart sank. “But…”
“But what? But what? Why do you tease me like this?”, was what I thought.
Then he turned his head to cough. “Seriously?” God is teasing me at this moment.
“I have a good idea of what this is. But it would probably be in your best interest to have it confirmed by a colleague of mine. I am going to refer you to a neurologist who specializes in Sports Medicine. Let me make a few phone calls and see if I can get you an appointment ASAP.”
ASAP turned out to really mean just that. “Consider yourself lucky. I managed to pull a few strings and get you an appointment today. Normally, there’s a 2 month wait list. How soon can you get to Guelph?”
I wanted to say “I could be in Guelph in 5 minutes, speed limits be damned.” But I ended up saying, “Doctor, I’ve been unable to walk for months now. I will drop anything necessary to make it to her appointment today.”
“OK then. You’ll need to hurry. You’ll need to be there in an hour. I’ll call her and let her know that you’ll be on your way.”
I’m pretty certain that I might have bulldozed over a nurse on the way out of the hospital. But I was solely focused on one task at hand. Get to Dr. Galvin’s office.
While in the waiting room, I suddenly realize why there was such a wait list for Dr Galvin’s expertise. Littered on the walls were signed pictures of professional athletes who had been treated Dr Galvin, along with Hockey Canada team photos with Dr Galvin prominently listed as “team physician”.
“But what? But what? Why do you tease me like this?”, was what I thought.
Then he turned his head to cough. “Seriously?” God is teasing me at this moment.
“I have a good idea of what this is. But it would probably be in your best interest to have it confirmed by a colleague of mine. I am going to refer you to a neurologist who specializes in Sports Medicine. Let me make a few phone calls and see if I can get you an appointment ASAP.”
ASAP turned out to really mean just that. “Consider yourself lucky. I managed to pull a few strings and get you an appointment today. Normally, there’s a 2 month wait list. How soon can you get to Guelph?”
I wanted to say “I could be in Guelph in 5 minutes, speed limits be damned.” But I ended up saying, “Doctor, I’ve been unable to walk for months now. I will drop anything necessary to make it to her appointment today.”
“OK then. You’ll need to hurry. You’ll need to be there in an hour. I’ll call her and let her know that you’ll be on your way.”
I’m pretty certain that I might have bulldozed over a nurse on the way out of the hospital. But I was solely focused on one task at hand. Get to Dr. Galvin’s office.
While in the waiting room, I suddenly realize why there was such a wait list for Dr Galvin’s expertise. Littered on the walls were signed pictures of professional athletes who had been treated Dr Galvin, along with Hockey Canada team photos with Dr Galvin prominently listed as “team physician”.
Finally after a half
hour wait, Dr Galvin casually strolls in, performs a few tests and finally
tells me what has been plaguing me for months. “I’m regret to inform you that
you are suffering from Complex Regional Pain”.
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