Summer was coming. I had a goal.
I've never been comfortable wearing a 2-piece swim suit in public. Even though I've never been that big, I'd never felt I was bikini body worthy. But having lost 30+ pounds and dropping 5 pants sizes, I was thinking, hmmm. Maybe. Just maybe.
I set a goal. The goal is that if I am able to buy a swim suit - a 2-piece swim suit at Diane's (or similar place like Everything But Water) and wear it in public, I'm going to get my belly button pierced. Maybe I'll do a fakie just to give my family a jolt. It's an ongoing joke I've had with a couple of close friends in my life, getting my belly button pierced. The bikini isn't a joke. It's the Goal.
I cranked up my workouts and dialed in my diet just a little more. I exercised every day, either a hike or my "floor routine," a mixture of yoga, kettle bell and a few Tony Horton moves. Some days I did both. I loved it. I love the way I feel after exercising. And I especially loved the results I was feeling and seeing.
One beautiful morning in March, I'm outside doing my floor routine, really getting into a Tony Horton ab move. Sizzor kick/swing, with upper torso lift, twist and reach, bringing opposite finger tips and toes together in the air. As my right leg extended down to the ground, I felt a "pop". No pain, just a pop, like a guitar string had been given a hard pull.
I complete the set. I finished my whole routine. The little spot didn't hurt, but I could definitely tell it was there.
I hiked Pinnacle Peak Treadmill the next day.
I did my floor routine the next day.
And I hiked the next morning. By mid-day I knew I needed to do something about the spot in my tummy.
It still did not hurt. It was uncomfortable. I was aware of it when I walked, sat, drove the car, turned to pick up something, sit down, stand up. It was there all the time.
I got in to see the doctors assistant that afternoon. She dug around in my abdomen as she named off the possibilities of what could be going on. Hernia, strained muscle, ovaries, kidney stones were a few thoughts.
I left the doctors office in pain - for the first time my spot hurt.
Because of insurance changes I wasn't able to go directly to imaging for an ultrasound, instead I had to wait until the following Tuesday.
I spent the weekend in so much pain I could not walk. I sat in bed with an ice bag on my gut for almost three days straight. By the fourth day I had to get out of bed because I had things I had to take care of - I was expected in Seattle by the end of the week. And there was no getting out of the trip.
The ultra sound showed nothing. The blood and urine tests showed nothing, ruling out a kidney stone. I went to Seattle and gimped around taking taxis when I normally would have walked. It was depressing, not being able to walk like I was used to.
Back home I visited my massage therapist again. She told me, again, I had strained my Illiopsoas muscle, although now I'd really, really strained it, and I needed to stop. "The only way it will heal, is to let it rest," she said, her voice stern. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the face, "you have to STOP. Or it will not heal."
Yeah, tell a runner they have to stop. I wasn't running at the time, but having been a runner, a hiker, a walker - a moving in a forward direction person - all my life, STOP was not in my vocabulary.
My body on the other hand, liked the word and had the final say.
I had to stop.