The days before the surgery

Whipping silently on the examination bed. Couldn’t think on anything else, but the job and how I’m going to be able to do any sport. I was just about to sign up for another dance class, but taking everything into account I was sure this will not happen in the short future. I’m not a professional dancer, although it does mean a lot to me, plus the running and anything else where I would use my legs. I’m not a computer freak. So…

I never really had the chance to lead an active sport life. At the age of 5 I was so flexible that I got the opportunity to develop my skills. However my mum was afraid that I will get hurt, or I will loose my childhood and it all stopped before it even get started. All in all until a certain age I didn’t know what it means to enjoy a “free” life. No particular sport classes, no groups, except my fathers pushing attitude to go jogging. I hated it, and this got worse in the high school were the teacher decided to bring up athletes, because she enjoyed her time in New York in the Central Park.

Running from the devil or on the way to the heaven?

What the hell is so enjoyable when you got sweaty, out of breath, tired and your heart is pumping in your head? How can anyone feel a desire to do this willingly? One of my experiences: gym class at school and we had to run 2 km in 10 min. I knew at the beginning that in order to get the second lowest result I will have to push my self real hard. Obviously you can’t deny doing it, so I got going. After few meters when it started to be very inconvenient I just stopped.
The Professor got mental and she put me to start it all over again. When I finished I felt dizzy, my blood pressure was up in the sky, all kind of colours flicked in front of my eyes and I couldn’t move for at least ten minutes. Nice. Just what I’ve needed. After this exceptional experience even the thought of moving fast made me sick. Many years later for some absurd reason I tried again starting in a short circles around my flat. The first few occasions were disastrous, but strangely enough I kept going. I realized that there is something in this continuous moving. You put on your shoes and you start to feel the rhythm. The road and you are one. No thoughts, no doubts, no target, no aim just you and the air around you. I actually start to enjoy it, get a kind of addicted to it. It didn’t matter how tired I was when I got home, the only thing what counted was to get out on the road. I loved that. It was dark ,not many people around me, so that I could switch of. I never saw this coming, but the same was true for this injury, which at the moment is cutting me of from the road.

The orthopaedic doctor finally arrived. He at least was much better looking, young and much more friendly. He was my last chance. But will his diagnosis over right the previous statements? He examined me , asked me the same questions, squeezed that sour part on my leg and … And nothing changed.