This morning I was ready. I was bundled up against the cold, a pair of black spandex shorts secreted under my jeans. My legs were limber from early morning stretching so that could show off my new moves for my doctor. The great reveal: the follow-up appointment to my first round of Botox injections twelve days ago. Given the success I’ve had so far with my calf muscles, I was looking forward to another round of shots. They would, I hope, liberate my thighs, hips and lower back from the strangle-hold of spasticity. I was looking forward to sitting effortlessly cross-legged on the floor, to contorting myself into the lotus position, to kayaking in the spring. I was looking forward to being less knock-kneed, and to wearing shorts that don’t bunch up in the front when I walk.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. At least not today. My doctor decided to exercise caution and wait for further treatments until early 2010. This wasn’t due to any adverse reaction to the drug, but rather concern that another round of injections, so soon after the first, might encourage my body to produce antibodies. These we don’t want, because they prevent the drug from working. (At least I think that’s what he was saying; I don’t speak Neurologist.)
I was disappointed, although I knew it was a distinct possibility that we’d have to delay. I felt like a little kid who finds socks and underwear under the Christmas tree. The doctor was doing his job, looking out for me, and looking at the big picture. But I was a little crushed. I was ready. I wore spandex shorts for the first time since 1989! It took all my willpower not to stamp my foot and say: “But Doc, you promised!”
On the train ride home I tried to console myself with the fact that a new date had been set, I just needed to be patient. It wasn’t really working for me. At all. I went through the rest of the day feeling like another roadblock had been thrown up in front of me, like I’d stumbled on the last hurdle. I was tempted to sit on the couch with a box of chocolates or some beer. I think what got me was the two+ month stretch of waiting, for time to pass and for the solution to land on my doorstep. It’s a helpless position to be in, waiting for something good to come to you. I’ve never been zen enough to make that work for me.
There’s nothing I can do about the delay, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit on my couch for two months. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, chocolate and beer, I went to the gym. I knocked out 45 minutes on the eliptical–concentrating on maintaining my posture and pushing through with my heels. I lifted weights and focused on form and contracting the muscles I know are weak. My personal trainer extraordinaire (PTE) will be thrilled to know I did all the exercises I hate–including that hamstring one on the TRX.
And I felt better. I still feel better–because I have agency. I can use those two months to build muscle and strengthen my already liberated ankles. And if my doctor won’t give me the shots next time, I am pretty sure I’ll be strong enough to put him in a headlock by then.