My journey to diagnosis, and hopefully treatment — and the life discoveries and journey along the way — started with a split second action at the edge of Lake Michigan at the Chicago Triathlon in 2008.
Since that injury, so much has occurred along this twisted road. For those interested in more of the background that led up to this blog, I will be over the weeks relaying here more about that race, the injury, and the events following.
First, the race.
It was 2008, and I was headed to Chicago for a week with work. The work week happened to end right on the same weekend as the Chicago triathlon. I was so stoked. My boss kept teasing me that I was like a kid in a candy store, chatting up all the other racers in the elevators, salivating over the awesome bikes, and going out to run or walk portions of the course each morning before work, or catching a quick swim in Lake Michigan.
I was in heaven! And fell in love with Chicago so quickly, I actually joked with my boss about getting a condo up there and telecommuting each summer. (It wasn’t so much of a joke — I actually even looked at some places and got prices.)
Lake Michigan during summertime is beautiful. The water was so clear, I could be in water up to my neck and still see my toes. And Chicago is one of the most bike and running friendly cities I’ve ever visited. Miles and miles of uninterrupted trails weaving under and over roads via tunnels and bridges.
I didn’t want to bother bringing my bike on the plane (and this was before I got my Cervelo), so I had rented a Trek and brought my clips. It was a lot more fun to ride than my borrowed road bike back home, and I was enjoying the tours of Chicago via two wheels. The trails went along the coastline and past gardens and tree lined neighborhoods. At night I would hear the music and watch the dancing in the garden arena outside my hotel room.
My mom’s birthday was also that week, and I was flying her out to spend a few days with me and watch my race. We had a couple of days to tour the city before the race, visiting museums and shops and restaurants. It was turning out to be a great week.
Race morning I headed out to transition to get set up while my mom slept a little longer. We were a short walk to the race start. She arrived to see me queued up in the swim start. Little did I know that my life was about to change in a drastic way in just a few minutes.
By the time I got to Chicago, I had several triathlons under my belt, and had been making a lot of progress from the back of the pack to more of the middle of the pack. My swimming especially had improved. That would probably turn out to be my downfall.
As I headed into the water with my wave, I quickly moved in with the middle of the pack, and held my position well. If you’ve ever watched a triathlon, you know the middle of the pack is like a pack of piranhas in a feeding frenzy — imagine rugby underwater. It’s the most full-contact sport I’ve ever experienced. But my strokes were strong, my breathing steady, my mind calm. Despite the melee of swinging arms and legs, I felt very secure in my position and was having a great swim when, WHAM!
The edge of another swimmer’s hand caught the underside of my nose in a sharp upper cut. A bolt of lightening surged through the bridge of my nose straight to the back of my skull and I winced and gasped at the impact. Fortunate for me, I was already on my way up for a breath, so when I gasped I took in mostly air, not water.
It took me a moment to recover and regain my senses, as I flipped on my back for a few back strokes. With swimmers all around me and gaining on me, I had to swim for survival now just to avoid further injury or being pushed under. I flipped back over to freestyle, the whole time having the sensation of blood streaming down my face into the lake.
As I emerged from the water on the other side, my hand went instinctively to my nose, anticipating a surge of bright red to appear on my hand. I checked and rechecked, and no blood. I couldn’t believe it. My nose was still in agony, my head throbbing. But no blood meant no excuse not to go on. Maybe it all washed away in the lake — I’ll never know. Just like I’ll never know who hit me or if they even knew what they hit.
So I continued to my transition point, hopped on my rented race bike, and headed down the Chicago freeway. The wind on the bridge of my nose was almost too much to bear. It was worse than the worst sinus headache I’d ever had. My entire face ached, my nose throbbed, and I ducked down into aero to try to shield my nose. I think I had an okay bike, and I do remember it was beautiful weather and the lake looked beautiful glistening in the sun. But most of what I remember from that bike ride was intense pain.
The run at least removed me from the air pressure, but was hot and muggy. Combined with my body’s shock from the injury, the conditions were taking their toll on me. I took water at every aid station — three cups: one for drinking, two for tossing on my head. Finally I made it to the finish line, and was elated to find ice cold, dripping wet towels awaiting all the finishers as they placed the finsher’s medal around my neck. My mom soon found me at the finish, and I had barely enough time to relay the injury and race to her before she had to rush off to catch her flight. (I was staying one more night to recover from the race before heading home. I’d had no idea how much I would need that day.)
(can’t even tell my nose was injured)
I returned the bike to the rental shop, grabbed my stuff from the hotel lobby, and moved over to the Chicago hostel (I highly recommend this hostel — I’ve stayed there twice now, as I would attempt the Chicago triathlon one more time before getting to the point where I could no longer race and headed into the whole process of sinus infections, surgeries, and recovery . . . . More on that in future additions to this post. . . .) Before bunking down for the day and night, I headed to the drug store for some Acetaminophen. I downed a couple pills, and slept most of the rest of the day, waking only for a couple of meals to replenish my wasted body. I flew home the next day. Then the saga started. . . .
to be continued . . .
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