The running season is winding down here in North Carolina. It’s getting hot. I had hoped to be writing an update on the Not So Normal Half-Marathon.
Misprint on my bib means I have all kinds of options. pic.twitter.com/BiQBgVYoT0
— Laurie Ruettimann (@lruettimann) May 16, 2015
Instead, I’m wondering why my body hates me.
The whole messy saga began on Wednesday. I went to the Mohonk Mountain House for a business retreat. I spent some time in the spa — soaking in the mineral tub and stewing in other people’s feces, apparently — and I came down with some vague form of gastroenteritis.
I had it all: sweats, gagging, and total loss of control of my lower extremities.
There are no sick days when you are a consultant and a business owner, so I swallowed some drugs and made the best of it on Thursday. Drank a lot of water. Had some soup. I even went on a hike. I thought — this 24-hour bug isn’t so bad.
Thursday evening, everything came back. I just had to make it one more day, I thought, so I swallowed more drugs and went to bed. I slept for nearly 9 hours.
My Friday wasn’t terrible. I was sorta hungry, which is a good sign. I made it home without ruining any more underwear. By Saturday morning, I was convinced that I could run my half-marathon. I just needed to carboload and hydrate. I picked up my runner’s packet, drank a Powerade and thought about my race strategy. I even bought a new pair of socks.
But it all fell back apart on Saturday night. Once I was off the Imodium and Zofran, I felt miserable. Couldn’t keep any food down. Couldn’t stop pooping.
So there’s no race for me, but I have another half-marathon planned in a few weeks.
Also — how the hell do you parents and people who manage eldercare issues do this? (I know, I know. You do what you have to do.) But watching the body fail is gross. All I want is to snuggle up next to my husband and have him reassure me that the world is not ending. He wishes that he could wear hazmat protection and burn my clothing in an incinerator.
To the next race!