The weeks have been flying by lately, and once again I find myself behind on writing my weekly training journal! Part of the reason I’ve been struggling to get these done lately is that back in February I joined the Health Central team as a monthly contributor! Since then I’ve been writing two posts a month, and you can catch up on all of my articles here. This is an awesome opportunity to reach a much larger audience than I usually do, but it’s left me struggling to create additional content for this blog.
I’ve also been meaning to switch up the format of these weekly training journals, because while the “the good, the bad and the ugly” format is cute, at the end of the day it focuses on more the negatives than positives of my training. Perhaps I’ll go try a cliché sports metaphor and do weekly “wins and losses” instead… Feel free to chime in here, friends, because I’m clearly struggling.
So let’s just consider this an interim journal while I figure the whole format thing out!
This week is off to a pretty good start. On Monday I had a killer gym session, and yesterday I forced myself to get out and walk (and even run some intervals!) with the Wonder Pup despite the weekly chemo hangover. But then last night I found myself laying in the dark on the verge of tears from searing wrist pain untouched by meds, Salonpas, salves, ice, KT Tape and my wrist brace which is to say nothing of the pain in my back or knees.
I laid there silently, my jaw clenched, but in my head, I was screaming at the top of my lungs: FUCK ALL OF THIS. And by this, I don’t mean RA (that’s a given) I meant working out, running, yoga, races, my life as an athlete – all of it. Because as much as it’s a huge part of my life, how I identify myself and how I fight back against my disease, in those dark, lonely moments of soul-crushing pain, it’s hard to want to do anything more than lay in the fetal position… forever.
My left wrist has become a serious problem lately. X-rays show joint space narrowing and bone erosion, and I know it’s getting worse because gripping objects is becoming increasingly difficult. First I couldn’t hold a dumbbell long enough to complete a set of Romanian deadlifts last week, and I found myself on the verge of a temper tantrum at the gym. The weight I use is challenging, but I can lift it – I just can’t hold it anymore. Then the other day I picked up a glass of water, and before I could get it to my mouth, my fingers just let go and I watched it hit the floor. Vin called out from the other room to see if I was OK, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to completely lose my shit in response.
Today I’m exhausted and still nauseous from Methotrexate, but I’ve been able to pull myself back from the brink. Am I excited to go to the gym today and try those deadlifts again? Not remotely. But if I don’t go it just feels too much like letting RA win, and I just can’t do that. Not for as long as I can still get up, get dressed, put my sneakers on and GO.