Barefoot and Bitter: How Osteoporosis Just Took Trail Running Away From Me
October is a lovely month to be barefoot at Grand Canyon; last year I celebrated with not one, but two shoeless rim-to-rim crossings: the 21-mile South Kaibab to North Kaibab trek with a group from Glendale Community College on Oct. 10, and then a solo R2R in the opposite direction (North Kaibab to South Kaibab) on Oct. 26.
This October, however, I’m no longer on sabbatical, and even one trip to Grand Canyon was not to be–a bit of a downer, but my recent miles of strong, pain-free, barefoot running on local trails have been a delightful consolation.
And then I was out late in the afternoon of Oct. 13, marveling at the marshmallow moon just above the bruise-purple mountains, floating free down from Barham Ridge on Coachwhip Trail–a fifteen minute traverse of switchbacks, maybe a mile or so, not measuring, just being in my body, in the now, in my lovely damaged corner of the sagebrush universe, not measuring time or distance, not measuring up or how long, allowing gravity to ease my flight . . . and then there was trouble in paradise.
A tiny twinge began on the outside of my right ankle, not enough to even remember at the end of the run, but two days later it came to mind during a circumnavigation of the rolling Peters Canyon loop and the twinge returned.
Not just trouble in paradise, but hard knocks in Nirvana, problems in the Promised Land, a shitstorm in Shangri-La . . . long story short, it’s a stress fracture of my lower fibula.
When runners can’t run, are they still runners?
I had thought I was beyond the identify politics of “being” an activity. In the shiny endorphin-y haze of nose-breathing-gone-wild
in my recent trail adventures, hadn’t I begun to see my self as “run” more than “runner?”
Hadn’t I evolved to a much higher plane of righteous physical spirituality than the sweaty masses of mouth-breathing mountain bikers that I (reluctantly) shared my trails with?
I was so much free-er than those machinery-dependents: foot skin on soil. Toes on trail. Yeah, stubbing bloody was always a possibility, but the risk increased the reward, identity gone beyond an activity to cellular communion with the refreshing dust, the sublime breeze-in-gray-hair that I created by RUN.
Shirtless, smiling, belly skin slick in the lingering fall heat–as close as I could be to the red dust, rolled rocks, curled laurel sumac, rattle-seeded yucca stalks.
That was then.
Today’s reality: now I walk slow, uneven, although I my aim is to Not Limp as I cross Santiago Creek.
I almost shuffle. Who am I? I sit on a fire-downed pine, straddle it like a broad-backed horse, shove up my jeans past the swelling, past the dark-tinged skin.
My ankle bone has disappeared in the inflammatory pudding that is my lower leg.
Why me? Why not me? Like lightning with nowhere to go, my furious electrical thoughts, sadness, anger, ricochet inside me.
At least running used to release this shit into the Earth, that comforting old friend which has heard, seen, felt it before for millennia.
It’s rained a couple of times this month. A new season has begun: the lush blink of winter in Southern California. All around my log perch needles of green emerge from the dead thatch of last year’s decaying grass: life springing from decay.
My home garden is responding to the recent rain in an explosion of sprouting–lupine and poppy and wild hyacinth and all kinds of cotyledons who are as yet unrecognizable. Maybe some weeds in the mix. Time will tell.
Me and the seedlings: we all go on; we all absorb light, warmth, moisture, nutrients . . . metabolize it into life. Death and decay repurpose what’s left over for what’s to come. It’s an imperfect world that still works very well–but everything hinges on loss. (Whoever loses her life will find it: from Matthew 16)
I try to be upbeat . . . What is this loss of mobility, this pain, but a teacher? What is it time to learn today?
I would not be scribbling here along the Rinker Grove Trail at Santiago Oaks, not too many steps from the parking lot, if I could run.
But I can’t run, and so I sit and take note of the acorns that litter the ground around me. (Why are some so dark? Might they taste different than the more common tan ones? Could I eat a few and find out?)
I return home and do some online research; there is a lot more to acorn color and taste than I had imagined. While all oaks produce acorns, some species are more palatable than others; the nuts are bitter with varying amounts of tannic acid, and for humans to consume them, a lengthy process of water rinsing (called leaching) needs to happen.
What I also find interesting is that bitterness levels vary not only between species but between individual trees.
Hmmm. My next Google search employs the keywords “osteoporosis” and “bitterness.”
I’m due for my annual bone scan next month; last year’s news was disheartening–the bone density loss was continuing at a steady pace since my first broken-rib-inspired DEXA test back in 2009. I had degenerated further most annoyingly: the osteopenia was now officially osteoporosis.
You suck, old lady.
Crap. Thoughts like that are why my bones are crumbling, according to a variety of both secular and religious web sites.
Sigh. Another reason to feel bad about feeling bad.
For over a year I’ve been reading books and internet articles about the interconnectedness of our minds and bodies. “Mind is body,” one researcher noted.
Now for a round-up of my most recent findings (feel free to skip if you are pain-free, and please know I am bitter towards you now as well).
This is a Christianity-identifying site on mind-body-spirit and illness called “Faith and Health Connection.”
It has a section on depression and osteoporosis which reads, “A study of several research efforts including thousands of people by Hebrew University of Jerusalem researchers has shown a clear connection between depression and a loss of bone mass, leading to osteoporosis and fractures. The results, say the researchers, show clearly that depressed individuals have a substantially lower bone density than non-depressed people and that depression is associated with a markedly elevated activity of cells that breakdown bone (osteoclasts).”
“God inspired writers of the Bible to share his truth and principles about the connection between our emotional and spiritual health and our physical health. Take a look at the following verses related to this topic:
“A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” Proverbs 17:22
“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones .” Proverbs 14:30
Next: an exhaustive list of mind-body illness connections that reminded me of a sort of “horoscope” — you can pretty much apply anything on it (the “Barnum effect“).
But, like a negative horoscope, it was morbidly entertaining; here’s what it said my osteoporosis was trying to tell me:
Osteoporosis: Feeling there is no support left in life. Mental pressures and tightness. Muscles can’t stretch. Loss of mental mobility.
On to a similar encyclopedia-type site; on it I found “COMMON MIND-BASED CAUSES” subtitled “Osteoporosis/Brittle Bones”:
“Inflexibility, rigid thinking, fixed ideas, unwilling to change, lack of structure, unable to support self, weak from supporting others, feeling inferior, bitterness, hate, resistance to standing up for yourself +/or attachment to external source of structure/support.”
As a bonus, this site offers custom calming thoughts–here’s the one I am supposed to use for this bone-crunching malady:
“CALM CURE THOUGHT: I am flexible and stand strongly in love.”
Then there’s the “Can Cannabis Cure Bitterness” web page–very timely in light of California’s upcoming vote next week on legalizing marijuana. This author provides a really long, thoughtful, far-ranging treatise on bitterness that does not even mention Mary Jane (1970s slang for other old people to enjoy) until the end.
Did I find myself in all the above-referenced references?
Let’s just say that all this close-to-home stuff about bitterness is making me even more bitter that I am bitter and thus destroying my lovely strong barefoot running self from the inside out.
F*** you, Bitterness! I’ll forgive you when you stop eroding my bones.
To end on a less-bitter note: a friend posted a quote on FB a few days ago that has stuck with me in all my current non-running angst: “Build a life you don’t need a vacation from.”
Another blogger liked it too and came up with all kinds of advice along these lines.
“A life I don’t need a vacation from” sounds good right now; I’m thankful that even though my trail running days in our local wildlands are on hold, I can step barefoot outside my back door and still experience some of the lovely local flora of the California Floristic Province, one of our planet’s biodiversity’s hotspots.
Here’s what I found sprouting and growing this morning (both California native plants as well as veggies):
Happy Non-bitter Trails!