Because I say so: A different perspective of injury

I’m a communication studies professor at Rowan University, and one of the key themes of all of the classes I teach is that communication shapes our understanding of reality. The way we talk about “things” is a meaning-making process.

Before you start to think I’m a little crazy, let me clarify. I am not saying we are all plugged into the matrix, and nothing is “real”. (Although that could be true – how would we know ;)?) Objects, events, and people do exist. For example, when I crash on my bike, it will hurt, no matter how I choose to talk about it.

But, the meaning and value of these things are constituted by and through the way we communicate about them. How I (and others) communicate about bike crashes will play an integral role in how I adapt to my circumstances, my approach to cycling, and even how I recover from a bike crash.

We can talk about cycling as a uniquely dangerous activity. We can urge ourselves and others to avoid it. I mean, who wants to break a collarbone or die? This might ultimately lead some to quit the sport, or to never try it in the first place.

Alternatively, a bike crash (or insert your “thing” here) can be communicated as one of the many dangers that life offers and hardly a reason to stop pursuing things we like to do. We can talk about the thrill of feeling the wind whip past our ears as we engage a fast descent, or the pulse of oxygen swirling through our lungs and legs as we charge a difficult hill.

In other words, nothing really is what it is until we communicate what it is.

Think about it: how many things in your life have you wanted to try, but didn’t because you thought it was too dangerous, or you were too old (or too young), or too whatever? We literally TALK ourselves out of it. And, in the process, we construct communicative barriers to action, as well as to others.

For me it’s this simple: We act towards things (people, places, events and objects) based on the meanings we have for them, and we develop those meanings in communication with ourselves and others. While this is something I drill with my students, I need a refresher course myself from time to time. The past week has been very instructive in this regard.

We act toward injury based on the meaning we have for it.

For me, injury means the death of what I love to do. I tend to wallow in it. I google my symptoms repeatedly. I get lost in the minutae of my body parts. I throw pity parties for myself.

I’m rehabbing my right leg due to a persistant and chronic case of iliotibial band syndrome (ITBS). This injury started waaayyyy back in January of 2010, but because I insisted on continuing to run and train full tilt, it’s never had the opportunity to fully heal. Every time it starts to feel better, I race again and reaggravate it.

Not exactly the most healthy pattern.

So, this Autumn, I’m working on changing that. When the pain returned (yet again) after I raced Shoreman a few weeks ago, I knew I would have to end my 2011 season completely. No more triathlons. No 5ks. No half-marathons. No full or ultra marathons. And no Vermont 50. I also decided I would not register for next year’s Boston marathon to avoid the problems I had this year after running the race.

Pity party doesn’t quite capture the misery this brings to me. I’ve run a fall marathon or ultra for the past several years. Running is WHO I AM – or at least, a central way I communicate about my self. To not be able to enjoy running, without fear or worry that the pain will return, has dealt a real blow to my sense of self, and my feelings about the sport.

But, as I tell my students, my feelings are what they are because of how I communicate about them – to myself and to others.

I was reminded of this lesson last Tuesday night as I was driving home from work. I teach a night class, and so Tuesdays are a long and late day. For a morning person, 8:00 p.m. is LATE. I was not feeling particularly peppy, and I was disappointed with the night’s class. I had felt “flat”.

As I began my hour-long commute home, I started to sulk about how I wouldn’t be running the Vermont 50, which was scheduled for the coming weekend (September 25). I had run the race last year for the first time (race report here), and loved it. One of my goals back in January of this year was to go for it again – and break 10 hours. But that wouldn’t happen because of my stupid leg and my lazy ass–phrases I’ve been repeating frequently over the past several months.

Breaking into my pathetic pity-party was Terry Gross, the on-air personality for NPR’s Fresh Air, which is one of my favorite NPR programs. Terry (we are on a first name basis, right?) announced an interview with Maurice Sendak, the author of one of my all-time favorite childhood books: Where the Wild Things Are. (You can listen to the interview here.)

In a media-saturated, superficial culture, there are so few episodes or shows that leave a lasting impression. This interview absolutely left a lasting impression on me. Sendak, now 83-years-old, gave a touchingly honest account that left me weeping in my driveway. Sendak offered another example of how communication has the power to shape our understanding, to frame our reality, to shift our perspective to construct a new meanings for things.

Upon being asked about his age, he replied that it afforded him the opportunity to do things he would not do in his younger years. He has the patience and ability to take the time to enjoy the “beauty of this world.” Speaking of the impending end of his days (he was BRUTALLY frank on this point), advised Terry, “Live your life. Live your life. Life your life.”

Immediately I thought about my race-less Autumn season and realized I needed to think, to communicate about it differently. Not racing will give me the opportunity to enjoy my training in a very different way. Because I’m not racing until next year, I can enjoy the simple pleasure of running. No watch. No pre-determined pace or distance. Just me, my sneakers and a nice easy pace.

Even with this newfound perspective, I was still bummed about missing the VT50. On Saturday, I posted to twitter: “Trying really hard not to be bummed that my leg is keeping me from the VT50 this weekend. It really needs to heal for good this time.”

Within moments, Twitter friend Roxanne (@rockfalls95) responded: “Cheer up! you are lucky that you actually have an injury that you can recover from and race again…You’ve got legs and health!”

It was a shock to my brain. She was right. My ITBS is not keeping me from running entirely, it’s just keeping me from high intensity. And, let’s face it, as a long distance runner and triathlete, I HATE going anaerobic. This gives me the perfect excuse to avoid it!

Yes, I will miss my long 18-20 jaunts through the autumn scenery. But, within a few weeks or so, I should be able to return to at least a 10 mile jaunt on the trails.

I’ve have been a runner since I was 13 years old. But, I didn’t start racing until my mid-thirties. Racing doesn’t make me a runner.

Running makes me a runner.

This is not a time of weakness due to injury. This is a time to remember the pure joy I felt as a teenager as each foot hit the pavement. This is a time to revel in the beauty of the world, which will be all the easier because I’ll be taking it slowly.

I WILL recover from this injury, and I WILL enjoy the beauty of running this autumn. Me, my sneaks, and the trail.

 

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