ITB Blues.

So the last running related post I did on here was my marathon recap. Nada since then. Nada, unfortunately being a word that can also be applied to the amount of real running I've done since the marathon, in early November.

I can count on two hands the number of times I've ran. Since early November. Three plus months ago.

I haven't wanted to write about it, because it's just a bummer, and also because I've been slightly in denial. But I feel I can share now, because today, for the first time since the marathon I ran more than a mile without any knee pain. In fact I ran three. And I am super, super hopeful that this means I can finally return to my beloved city streets on a regular basis (that sentence also reads like I could be an on-the-mend prostitute, rest assured, I don't mean those kind of streets).

I did what all runners do with any kind of injury. I googled the shit out of it. Although from my own running history I kind of immediately knew what the likely culprit was:

Back when I was in my wee, early days of running, I trained for the Monument Ave 10k and promptly got injured. My sports med doctor called it a hip strain. And it was, kind of. But it was also, as my physical therapist, could quickly see, the symptom of a larger problem, ITBS, or iliotibial band syndrome. I did PT for several weeks, lots of clam shells, lots of stretches and strengtheners. I got a foam roller and learned about its magic. And it got better.

Nearly two years later however, ITBS reared its ugly head. It's an overuse injury, which means it doesn't start out screaming at you. It starts out quiet. I noticed it during my long training runs a month or so out from the marathon. Pain on the outside of my knee. At the time it was relatively dull and I could run through it. I'd be sore around the area for a couple of days, mostly going up and down stairs. But I could push past it. I had my eyes on a shiny marathon medal and a 26.2 sticker, and pesky knee pain wasn't going to stop me.

Plus there was the whole last minute calf strain thing, which pushed any other aches and pains out of my mind. And then there was the marathon. I'll just quote myself to describe how my knees were doing at around mile 20.

"The walk/run strategy was okay other than the first 30 seconds of starting to run again. Every time I did that I had to brace myself and hold my breath for just excruciating pain as my running muscles started up. Both of my knees felt like they had shards of glass in them and the transition from walking to running made those shards of glass really, really pissed off."

Oh yes. That. A normal person would, I don't know, stop doing an activity if said activity made it feel like there were shards of glass grinding around inside their knee. But this was on marathon day, so clearly I was not in any way a normal person. I put it to the back of my mind. I remember it very distinctly, how my knee felt every time I started to run. I think I knew then, what it was costing me, that I was doing something very bad to my body. But of course I kept going. I had to. Even now, knowing what I know, I wouldn't have stopped. I would have been just as much of an idiot, because when you run a marathon you have to stop being smart and start being stupid. Stupid during a marathon is the language of your heart. Brave, heroic, but incredibly stupid.

I tried to run about a week after the marathon, and honestly I don't remember that run being all that bad. Maybe because my body was such a wreck that there were too many aches and pain to differentiate from, but it wasn't until the next run that I knew something was wrong. I went out for a run, and right around the mile one mark, the side of my right knee started hurting. Within a few minutes it went from dull pain that you can run through to sharp, bold pain that demands stopping. I could even feel a tender to the touch spot on the side of the knee when I went to examine it.

And that is the story of the next handful of runs I attempted. I would wait a week or two, think it was "better", and then try to run. I would get a moment of hope at the beginning of the run when I was pain free, but like clockwork, ten minutes or so in, the knee would start to hurt, really hurt. I would walk/run for a few more minutes, until even that was too much. And then I would end up walking home, defeated. After all of these runs I'd have pain in the knee for the next couple of days whenever I went up and down stairs or if I kept my knee in one position too long.

I increased the time between my runs, hoping that might help. The longest I went was three weeks. Three weeks. Without any running. It broke my heart, but the worst part is that the time didn't seem to help at all in recovery.

Which brings me to the googling portion of this story. And the asking for advice portion. All of which led me to the same conclusion. ITBS. My case was textbook. I read dozens of similar stories from other runners, all of them frustrated by the same thing, but the inability to run. Some scared the crap out of me, with tales of not being able to run for six months to a year. Others gave me false hope by promising that one simple stretch would completely fix the problem.

I knew what I needed, physical therapy. PT has helped me through two running injuries now, and both times the staff at Physical Therapy Solutions have been miracle workers. It's such a holistic approach, with so many different angles, from stretches to strengthening to massage to ultrasound therapy. The only problem is that I'm a student and have crap insurance, and physical therapy would have to come out of my pocket.

But then, in a moment of clarity, I realized that yes, physical therapy, would be ideal. But I've already done the PT thing for ITBS when it was manifesting in my hip. I can't give myself ultrasound treatment or TENS, but I have the tools for almost everything else. I know by now what works, what needs to be done, and so why was I sitting on my butt, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for my knee to get better? Why wasn't I being proactive and doing things to achieve that?

So a couple of weeks ago I started. I have thrown everything including the kitchen sink at it, including:
   -daily Advil (trust me, I am a nursing student, and know NSAIDS should only be used for a short     term approach)
-strengthening exercises like my old friend, the clamshell

   Dramatic reenactment: I do not look this happy when I'm doing it

      

-I've been using my stick roller massage thingy (that is its technical name). One thing PT taught me is that massage for rehab should not be relaxing and pleasant. It should hurt like hell. I cannot imagine the amount of scar tissue and adhesions that have built up around my IT band since training. And I can feel them when I roll over them, because it does not feel like that when I roll over muscles elsewhere in my body. In this case, pain is a good thing.

-I've been using ice (probably not as much as I should because I forget)

-I've been using homeopathic gel with arnica (yes seriously). A lovely friend from nursing school gave me some Traumeel before the marathon when I had my calf strain, and I swear that stuff made a difference. So I thought, why not try it again? It's all-natural and it's not harmful. I may not be a homeopathic buff or even really believe in it for a lot of things, but for inflammation and sports injuries it makes sense to use plant based remedies that people have been using in that fashion for centuries. Plus when I apply it I have to massage those muscles again, which is also good.

-Finally and last but not least, I have been stretching like crazy. My eye doctor of all people, recommended a stretch using a counter top. You can see a demo of it in this very low budget Youtube video

I really like stretches that make you suffer a little, because then it feels like you're actually challenging your muscles. This one is killer. I can feel it all the way from my butt to my knee. I know some people say that the ITB cannot be stretched because it's mostly fascia, and okay, fine, that sounds scientific and true. But whatever this stretch stretches, I feel it right along where my IT band runs.

And that's the whole kaboodle. I was literally at the point where I would try anything, so I tried almost everything.

I cannot say if one of those things worked. If so I could never say which one. Maybe it was the combination. Maybe it was none of them and my IT band just randomly decided to stop being a jerk. For whatever reason, something changed, because today I ran three miles with zero knee pain. Not a twinge. And it makes me so happy, because God I've missed it. It was sunny and beautiful out today, and I can't tell you how much I've needed. The gym five days a week is bleak. I never realized how much I needed running not just for the mental and physical exercises, but for the very basic fact that it gets me outside, where there is sunshine and not just fluorescent school or hospital lighting. 

I don't want to get too excited, because I know this injury may very well not be over. ITBS isn't like a strain that just heals. It tends to stick around and rear up at inopportune times. I'm not going to over do it and jump back into running too fast. My post marathon idea of running a spring half marathon is pretty much out the window.

But I am cautiously optimistic. And I am humbled. I knew going into the marathon that it wouldn't be free. 26.2 miles can't possibly be. I was prepared for a cost, but I didn't know it was going to be three months without running, three months without gorgeous Sunday afternoons, without my city streets racing past, without fresh air in my lungs. I paid dearly for the marathon. And I just hope that it's done now. That I've paid my dues and I can get back to running.

Because I love it. Because my life isn't the same without it. Because today, running three miles felt like coming home. 

3 things for Tuesday night.

1. One word. Buttermilk.

Okay maybe I need a few more words. One of my favorite foods to make are oven baked chicken nuggets (because they are the closest I can get to my beloved McD's nuggets without sacrificing my health and dignity-although when I am sick and/or hungover, screw my dignity, give me some nuggets and spicy honey mustard). In the past I've stuck to a simple recipe, chop up chicken breasts, dip them in olive oil then Panko bread crumbs, then bake at high temps to get nice and brown.

I stumbled on this recipe from one of my favorite food blogs How Sweet Eats. I didn't make this recipe exactly but I stole a few ideas. #1: soaking the raw chicken in buttermilk for a few hours in the fridge (how could I have never done this before?!) #2 using a wire rack on top of the baking sheet #3 spraying cooking spray on the nuggets and #4 using some whole wheat flour along with my panko.

I neglected to take a picture because I was too busy stuffing the nuggets into my face without stopping to chew/breathe. But, they were awesome. The meat was much more tender and juicy than without the buttermilk and the whole wheat flour gave them a much more traditional nugget crunch than just the bread crumbs. So, so, so good.

2. My Clarisonic Mia has changed my face's life.

I have incredibly weird skin in the sense that on my cheeks and forehead it's pretty nice and smooth. I may have even received random stranger comments on occasion. But, and here's a big but, I have had T zone problems since I was 12. I've managed to keep it more or less under control but only by using an Acne specific 3 step system (Clinique for the last 6 years or so) every morning and night (it takes me like 30 minutes to get ready for bed, there are so many nights when I stay up late just because I am too tired to get ready for bed). I wash my face religiously. I never don't. And only by doing that have I kept relatively pimple free in recent years. But my skin is still oily in my T zone. I have huge pores around my nose. Blackheads (have I over-shared too much yet?). Far too many stress induced breakouts since going back to school.

But then. The skies parted. The sun came out. I finally ponied up the dough to buy a Clarisonic brush. I've had it for almost two weeks, and I can already not imagine life without it. I know that sounds silly. But if you have problem skin try one of these out. I know they are a little pricey. But I can guarantee it's worth it. My skin looks different already, but the biggest change is what it feels like, so smooth, and everywhere on my face now, not just my cheeks. I wash my face and all I want to do after is touch my face (which I know is not the best way to keep it all nice and clean so I resist the urge). I swear my pores have shrunken.

I'm sure I will still get the occasional stress breakout. But I really do feel like this has drastically changed my skin. And no I am not getting paid by Clarisonic. But I just had to share, because I'm sure there are many out there like me, adults who are sick and tired of that monthly break out and not wanting to not feel like Kelly Kapowski in that one episode of Saved by the Bell where Zac sells her defective acne cream to treat her giant, Rudolph nose pimple.

3) Last dodgeball game tonight. 

Also, on a related note I'm playing on a social dodgeball league! I'm finally fulfilling my mom's wishes, who before I started dating my boyfriend made a habit of every few months saying something along the lines of "why don't you join one of those social sports leagues? It's a great way to meet single young people." Much to my boyfriend's relief, I am not playing to meet young singles. I signed up with a bunch of my nursing school buddies as a way to force ourself to still have moments of fun in our lives during the semester. And much to my PE hating former self (I literally hid in the bathroom, that or faked a headache, or if I really wanted to get out of it, lady cramps), I have had a great time dodging balls. And that is pretty much all I do. Apparently throwing a dodge ball with enough force to get someone out requires arm strength that I do not, nor ever will, have. I can run 26 miles. I can not throw a ball with even a remote amount of force. 

But that's okay. We have lost almost every game (except for two come from-behind, last minute....ties). And it has still been good, silly fun. Especially because our team isn't big fat cheaters like almost every one else who plays. 

We may be 4th from last place in the league, but we've left it with our dignity. Plus beer vouches. And t-shirts!

A really good weekend.

On Thursday I saw this,



Mumford and Sons. Live. In person. With my eyeballs. And my ears. And my mind grapes. Rob and I went up to Fairfax for Valentine's Day, and I am no mushy Valentine's person but this, this was perfect. Champagne + a quick cheeseburger and fries at the hotel bar + a ginormous beer at the concert + a concert tee (oh how I love my concert tees) + the gentleman also known as Mumford and Sons. They have fast become one of my favorite bands in the last couple of years, and that status only increased after seeing them live. One of the rare bands that is incredible on a CD and better live. Just this giant, British ball of energy and talent and suspenders and white button up shirts. One of the best concerts I've been to without question.

Saturday we hung out in DC.

Walked from sister's neighborhood Cleveland Park to a really cool place in Dupont for lunch, a modern take on a Jewish deli called DGS Delicatessen.

Had knish and a white fish salad bagel. Never eaten either of those two things before. The verdict=yummmmm (and kosher to boot!)

After lunch we spent the next few hours with my sister, niece, and baby nephew at my favorite place in DC. The zoo (yes I am a child). When I was briefly my niece's nanny back when she was a teeny baby (get misty just thinking about it), I took her to the zoo in her sling almost every day. Being outside in the sling was one of the few times when she wouldn't scream. We would wander around for content hours, her bundled in the sling, me with a large Starbucks coffee. I would happily look at all the animals. She would inevitably fall asleep. I would point out the baby gorilla. She would keep sleeping. It was a good arrangement. And I will always have lovely memories of our walks there.

Friday was a gorgeous day, so we spent a couple of hours there (the DC zoo is so huge and fun you could easily spend 12 hours and not see everything). Lemma pointed out all "her" animals (she lives almost next door so it's basically her backyard and the animals are her pets). We saw the giant pandas munching on bamboo. We went to the invertebrate house, because Lemma loves the anemones (doesn't sound very exciting, but octupuses and jellyfish are surprisingly cool). We watched the big cats (my second favorite animals there after the gorillas) for a while. We walked up the North American trail and saw all the perky, active animals (must have been the nice weather break) like wolves and beavers and seals. It was a good way to spend a nice afternoon in DC.

After a Two Amy's (some of my favorite pizza) dinner at my sister and brother-in-law's apartment we headed back to Richmond. The rest of the weekend was spent studying and doing school work, but Thursday and Friday were a perfect little mini-weekend, and the stress relief I desperately needed.

Because school is crazy this semester. Crazy and cool (I saw a baby get birthed y'all, more on that later). Which is why I am writing so sporadically. But am going to try to do better. Pinky swear. Hope you all had equally lovely Valentine's Days and weekends.

Be grateful for healthy children.

My intention was for my next blog to be part two of my New Orleans recap and to bring you more tales of eating my weight in po-boys happiness and to-go drinks. However I must interrupt for a slightly more sobering topic. I'm in my pediatrics rotation this semester, which I've looked forward to since I started nursing school. I work with kids in my job, and I love it. I love to be silly and the way a coloring book or a stuffed animal can fix tears. I love being able to call patients "sweetie" or "buddy" without sounding patronizing or disrespectful. I really enjoy working with kids.

Today's clinical was different. For the next few weeks we will be at a long term children's facility. In orientation it was described as a "nursing home for children." Which is a phrase that manages to be both accurate and absolutely heart breaking.

I can't go into too much details because I'm exhausted and terrified of violating HIPPA (first goal of nursing school, get through it without breaking privacy laws). I just felt like I needed to write something. Today was hard. These aren't kids in the hospital to get tonsils out or to have tubes put in their ears. These aren't kids with the flu who will get better with some rest and fluids. Most of the kids in this place have been there for years. They will be there for years, until they turn 21 and move on to an adult chronic care facility. Most of the kids can't breathe on their own, or talk, or move without assistance.

The work they do in this place is tremendous. It is humbling to watch and I am so thankful this facility exists. And yet I struggled today. I struggled while I was with my patient, because as much as I wanted to be in the moment and be bright and optimistic, as much I  know that a nurse should never pity a patient or feel "sorry" for them, despite all that I was staggered by the reality of this child's life. It is a reality that I do not understand, that I can not ever understand. And while I am sure that reality contains a multitude of things I am unaware of, a world of joy and peace and purpose that only that child truly knows, it's hard not to think of all those things not part of that reality.

It's hard not to think of never's and can'ts And I'm not talking never going to Disney World or never having a wedding. I'm talking about the fact that many of these kids will never walk, or eat. They'll never sing or speak, never dance or run. When the world is right side up, you look at children and see possibility. I found myself in a mixed up world today, a world of children with so much possibility robbed of them.

Please do not misunderstand me. These children are beautiful. Their lives have meaning. They are in a place with heroic caregivers (heroic in every sense of the word). I hate to sound like I am writing them off, because I would never do that. I root for them. I root for their lives, for those moments of happiness and silliness and love they all must still have, even if it's different than the way we experience those things.

I don't pity them. They deserve so much more than that. But I do grieve for all of their never's and can'ts. I'm not sure you could be a human and not. 

And I'm writing all of this not to be uber depressing or wallow in my sadness. I'm writing to process, but also to state, with total and utter conviction, that you, whoever you are reading this, please, please, please, be grateful. Be grateful for your childhood, for your skinned knees and sun burns, for the taste of macaroni and cheese and the feel of grass under your bare feet. Be overcome by it. Be humbled by your health and by any healthy child you know. 

I think of my niece and nephew, who are so perfect, who breathe and laugh and wiggle. I think of them and I ache with gratitude.

We all have problems. We all have crappy things happen to us. But we're so lucky. And I guess that's the point of this disjointed blog, to say that for tonight at least I have things in persepctive. For tonight I am floored by the blessing that is my life and the life of so many I hold dear. So hug your babies or your nephew or your cousins. Appreciate the miracle that is a healthy human child. And keep those other children in your thoughts and prayers, those beautiful, brave kids I saw today. 

New Orleans (Part One)

I could do the usual song and dance about how crazy busy I've been (new job, new semester, blah blah, redundant cakes) and how ridiculous it is that I've gone more than a month without posting, but I'll just skip all that, skip the full and detailed recap of the last 6 weeks and just jump right in to recapping last weekend's wonderful trip to New Orleans, the craziest, most ridiculous, funnest, most delicious, hands down most singularly unique city I've ever experienced within this nation's borders.

The boyfriend and I arrived Friday on about three hours of sleep (I had worked until 11:30 the night before + early flight). We could have gone straight to sleep at the hotel but obviously the first thing we did was head into the French Quarter, propelled solely by adrenaline and the hunt for Bloody Mary's. As I quickly realized only steps from our gorgeous hotel (seriously, coolest hotel ever, Frank Sinatra stayed there, Elvis stayed there) New Orleans is not a city you ease your way into. New Orleans is a city you jump head first into. It's Oz. You arrive in black and white and suddenly wham bam, you're in technicolor. The saturation is cranked up, and you find yourself slightly dazed, looking around at a crazy, beautiful, drunken, slightly absurd new world.

We were on the "American" side of the city, but right next to Canal Street, which divides the American side from the French side, or French Quarter. We walked into the French Quarter and there were a million sights and sounds. People strolling down the street with drinks at 11am. Businesses hosing down the sidewalks in front of their shops (they do this in Paris, and as I found out throughout the weekend New Orleans is in some ways a bizarro version of Paris, only Americanized and southern, Paris' lewd, Creole, jazzy cousin). We walked down Bourbon for a little ways and it was everything you'd think Bourbon Street to be, strip clubs out and proud in broad daylight, bars with dance music already pumping before it was even noon, drunks stumbling around with their beers unhidden (no need for paper bags in this city). Stores filled with beads and masks. Signs advertising such exotic wonders as wine smoothies and jumbo beers (honestly the size of a small child)

But here's the thing about New Orleans. I was well primed for the drunkeness and the seediness of Bourbon Street. You hear about that. People talk about that. But in the French Quarter you turn off Bourbon Street, walk half a block, and all of that feels miles away (well maybe not the drunkenness, God bless it, that's available everywhere in the city). Suddenly this mix of Paris and Savannah and a hundred other undefinable bits and pieces of cities and cultures, Africa and Haiti and Spain. There are hundred plus year old restaurants everywhere. There is music everywhere. As in literally every block, starting in the morning and going all night. Street performers who are as good or better than most of the bands you hear on the radio, creative and open and practically vibrating with passion.

If I had to describe New Orleans in one word it would be passionate. The city crackles with it. I am so jealous of people from New Orleans, because they just seem to have that in their blood, passion for food and art and music, for everything. That's so in line with how I always aim to live my life. I know some people thing it's silly to get so excited about a meal or a drink or a song. But my opinion, which it seems like the city of New Orleans shares, is what's the point of life if you don't get ridiculously excited and passionate about a po' boy or the way a band sings a song or the way a Bloody Mary tastes right off a plane. Those things are life. And speaking of Bloody Mary's.

I got this one at Pere Antoine's, along with my first New Orleans po'boy. This one had shrimp and catfish, because really how could you choose just one delicious, fried water dwelling creature?

So, so good. I may have passed out a few times while eating it. It's all kind of a blur. After we ate we took a quick nap at our lovely hotel, and then headed back out for more. Even though the city is starting to gear up for Mardi Gras and the Super Bowl in February (it's going to be such gorgeous chaos), I was still surprised how many tourists were there in the middle of January. After a classy cocktail at our hotel's Sazerac bar (where the drinks the Sazerac and the Gin Fizz were invented, again this hotel could not have been cooler or have more history), we headed out and the streets were full of happy, tipsy people.

There was always such a nice mix wherever we went of people. Of course there were the usual college kids out to get as close to alcohol poisoning as possible without dying. But there were also groups of women on ladies' weekends, older couples, families, some locals perhaps stuck in there. All of the bars and restaurants we went to had this mix of people and it lent the whole place an air of genial, "we're all here to have a good time and eat enough Cajun/Creole food to gain several pounds" conviviality. For dinner Friday night we ate at K'Paul's. The chef is Paul Prudhomme (gotta love all the French surnames), who is apparently one of the first "celebrity" chefs. I wish I had pictures to show of the food I ate, but the time it would have taken to snap a photo would have meant at least five seconds of not stuffing my face, so unfortunately I couldn't make that sacrifice.

I got salmon with jambalaya and I've had "jambalaya" before, but this was no "jambalaya." This was jamba-freaking-laya. Jambalaya from the place jambalaya was born. Jambalaya in the wild if you will. So, so good. I almost wept when I was too full to finish it. Because we were trying to be good that first night and not put ourselves in the position of feeling like poo the next day, we took it relatively easy. I got my first to-go drink of the weekend, this delicious strawberry flavored beer from a local brewery, Covington (so many local breweries around New Orleans, apparently Blue Moon is from the region, again, most awesome things in life seem to originate in Louisiana).

really thrilled about this to-go drink culture (and WINE smoothies)

Then we walked to stand in line at Preservation Hall, a historic venue in New Orleans (although what in New Orleans isn't super historic is beyond me) that was founded to preserve jazz and features nightly jazz concerts.

(not my picture, stolen from Wikipedia)

There was a long line, but I had a to-go beer so I was happy as a clam. Honestly if to-go drinking were legal everywhere, people would be so much more relaxed about lines. Just think about how much more pleasurable the DMV would be. We got in luckily and were ushered into a tiny, no frills room.

if you couldn't tell, again not my picture, it was against the rules to take pictures inside, this is from the NY Times, those notorious rule breakers

We were at the very back and for the first half of the concert I could only see the tops of people's heads and occasionally shiny objects which I assumed were horns and trombones and the like (I am not a jazz expert). But I didn't care that I couldn't see. I could hear. Now like I said I am not a jazz expert. Up until this weekend I would not have even called myself a jazz fan. I associated jazz with a lot of discordant sounds and bleeps and bloops. But I don't think I had ever really heard jazz. Not like this. Not in a city like New Orleans. This is where jazz was born. An entire genre of music was born in this city. And to hear it there, in this little cramped room, in the middle of the French Quarter, surrounded by people who weren't talking or singing along or playing with cell phones, but just listening, quietly listening, nearly holding their breaths with listening. To hear it there made me instantly a jazz fan, instantly awed and surprised and knocked on my feet by how good it can be, how fun and silly and simultaneously soulful and honest jazz is. I can't describe the music. I can't talk about the instruments at any length. I can just say, if you're like me and think jazz is just a bunch of made up notes and funny sounds, go to New Orleans, go to Preservation Hall or any of the other number of venues with nightly live jazz, and just listen. Listen and more importantly hear. Because you'll hear it. Whatever jazz is, whatever it's meant to be. You'll hear it. I did.