The latest report of low bone density, though shockingly not the actual report as it hasn't been read by the doctor who needs to read it, has lead me all over the Internet in search of information. In my travels, I found what I concede is an old joke, but a worthy chuckle nonetheless:
A guy goes to see his doctor and says, "Doc, I don't eat fried foods, fatty foods, I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't stay up late, I don't chase after women and I don't eat red meat. How long will I live."
The doctor says, "With a life like that, why do you care?"
Friday, December 28, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Old School Social Networking or The Stomach Flu Follies
Connecting via the Internet on social networking sites is, no question, all the rage, and, strangely, big business. What is it gives in the ability to quickly connect with strangers masquerading as teenage girls living in Des Moines, it loses in its ability to spread good old fashioned germs. There is just nothing like sharing a water glass or soda, or giving a kiss to an aunt or grandfather to really move the germs around. And, oh, how quickly your network can spread. This is where our story begins.
Sunday before the Monday that was Christmas Eve dawned early at the in-laws house as my middle kid (of three) woke me to let me know that he had diarrhea. There are no words more exciting for a parent than that. The ensuing clean-up is always joyful. Where are those disinfectant wipes? Whose got the bleach spray? Amidst the clean-up, there are the inevitable "what did he eat" questions. Answer: he ate the same thing we all ate. And then, the microscopic waiting. As the symptoms race into place, chills, fever, more frequent, unenjoyable visits to the bathroom, the questions arise? Is it stomach flu? Where are those germs now?
Turns out the answer to the last two questions were a resounding YES and quickly spreading.
Christmas Eve dawned extra early as the three year-old showed up in our room (now back home) at 4:00 A.M. to announce, sadly, that he had thrown-up all over his bed, and, as it turned out, himself, his floor, and the hallway floor leading from his room to ours. Just a general path of the prior day's food with the unmistakable smell of throw-up.
But that wasn't the end of it.
We had planned a Christmas Eve and day trip to an indoor water park in the resort location of Lake Geneva, WI. Fun times to be had by all that would include five people staying in one hotel room, except, well, now the Mrs. was feeling a little hinky. She was holding down her meals of Christmas past (well, really of the day before, the day before Christmas, but that doesn't move much on the page), but she wasn't feeling like a car trip. The decision was made that I would travel with the seven year old (now feeling fine and back to his "regular" self) and the nine year old (girl) who had a little secret she wasn't sharing with us as we packed our swimsuits and flip flops for sunny Wisconsin.
I loaded up the Prius (also feeling a little under the weather after my in-laws' neighbor plowed her minivan into my driver's side door) with food, the big kids (as 7 and 9 are known) and off we drove. During the drive, the nine year old began to hint at the fun that lay ahead.
"Daddy," she said as we crossed the Illinois/Wisconsin state line after two tolls had been deducted from my I-Pass.
"My stomach hurts a little bit," she continued.
"Do you need me to stop or go back?" I asked.
"No, I will be fine," she intoned.
Fine is a relative term. Daylight faded and we approached the hotel. We arrived, unpacked (no working elevator and my confining boot make for a fun time) and then set out to tour the water slide area. We walked in and the first thing that hits you is the fact that it is 90 degrees in there. No lie, they crank the heat, either to give the illusion of summer or Florida or some other trip I didn't spring for on this long, dreary winter break, or, perhaps, they were just trying to melt the fat off the pre-teens running around in last summer's swim trunks. Please, lady, get your fat ass kid to pick a sport other than Xbox. He has love handles that he can fold into each other. But, as they say, I digress, so perhaps a bit further: I get the whole warm vacation when it's cold outside thing. Pressing your bum into a lounge chair and thumbing through a few magazine or the paperback edition of The Da Vinci Code or some such bestseller-type book with big print while sipping on a tropical drink is swell. It really is just ducky. But, and I may be in the minority here, isn't there something so wonderful about a bleak, wind swept upper Midwest winterscape? Trees that stand in silhouette to a nearly always sunless sky speak to me on a visceral level. They frame the past year and prepare me for the coming rebirth that spring and all its greenness will bring. But, I digress, again and now, back to our story.
Turns out, the 9 year old had packed the sickness along for the trip and she was ready to graphically tell me about or unpack, pick your metaphor. As we strolled through the pool area to see the fun that lay ahead, big water slide, nice, lazy river, looks good, hot tub half of which is outdoors in the 30 degree cold, brilliant, my 9 year old says, "Daddy, I have to throw-up."
"Quick," I say, "let's go back to the room."
No such luck. Seconds later, she throws-up on the pool deck. And so, the network spreads.
The 9 year-old spent the next 11 hours in bed soaking up the Sponge Bob X-mas special and more episodes of Hannah Montana than anyone needs. By 10 the next morning, Santa had brought a Christmas miracle, she was fine and she spent two days water sliding. I have the pictures to prove it.
And then the calls came rolling in. A Milwaukee caller reports that my father-in-law has chills, body aches and gave a loving kiss to the porcelain god. Another Wisconsin caller reports that my 15 year-old nephew and 12 year-old niece have both spilled their guts. The network spreads.
By yesterday (12/26), I had a raging headache and began to wonder if it was my turn. I felt a churn in my stomach and feared it was potluck time (when the pot has all the luck and you have none). But, that was not to be. I was fine and the sickness has cleared my house completely. Somehow, I went unscathed. I feel so left out.
Did I mention that I haven't thrown-up since 1987? True story.
Sunday before the Monday that was Christmas Eve dawned early at the in-laws house as my middle kid (of three) woke me to let me know that he had diarrhea. There are no words more exciting for a parent than that. The ensuing clean-up is always joyful. Where are those disinfectant wipes? Whose got the bleach spray? Amidst the clean-up, there are the inevitable "what did he eat" questions. Answer: he ate the same thing we all ate. And then, the microscopic waiting. As the symptoms race into place, chills, fever, more frequent, unenjoyable visits to the bathroom, the questions arise? Is it stomach flu? Where are those germs now?
Turns out the answer to the last two questions were a resounding YES and quickly spreading.
Christmas Eve dawned extra early as the three year-old showed up in our room (now back home) at 4:00 A.M. to announce, sadly, that he had thrown-up all over his bed, and, as it turned out, himself, his floor, and the hallway floor leading from his room to ours. Just a general path of the prior day's food with the unmistakable smell of throw-up.
But that wasn't the end of it.
We had planned a Christmas Eve and day trip to an indoor water park in the resort location of Lake Geneva, WI. Fun times to be had by all that would include five people staying in one hotel room, except, well, now the Mrs. was feeling a little hinky. She was holding down her meals of Christmas past (well, really of the day before, the day before Christmas, but that doesn't move much on the page), but she wasn't feeling like a car trip. The decision was made that I would travel with the seven year old (now feeling fine and back to his "regular" self) and the nine year old (girl) who had a little secret she wasn't sharing with us as we packed our swimsuits and flip flops for sunny Wisconsin.
I loaded up the Prius (also feeling a little under the weather after my in-laws' neighbor plowed her minivan into my driver's side door) with food, the big kids (as 7 and 9 are known) and off we drove. During the drive, the nine year old began to hint at the fun that lay ahead.
"Daddy," she said as we crossed the Illinois/Wisconsin state line after two tolls had been deducted from my I-Pass.
"My stomach hurts a little bit," she continued.
"Do you need me to stop or go back?" I asked.
"No, I will be fine," she intoned.
Fine is a relative term. Daylight faded and we approached the hotel. We arrived, unpacked (no working elevator and my confining boot make for a fun time) and then set out to tour the water slide area. We walked in and the first thing that hits you is the fact that it is 90 degrees in there. No lie, they crank the heat, either to give the illusion of summer or Florida or some other trip I didn't spring for on this long, dreary winter break, or, perhaps, they were just trying to melt the fat off the pre-teens running around in last summer's swim trunks. Please, lady, get your fat ass kid to pick a sport other than Xbox. He has love handles that he can fold into each other. But, as they say, I digress, so perhaps a bit further: I get the whole warm vacation when it's cold outside thing. Pressing your bum into a lounge chair and thumbing through a few magazine or the paperback edition of The Da Vinci Code or some such bestseller-type book with big print while sipping on a tropical drink is swell. It really is just ducky. But, and I may be in the minority here, isn't there something so wonderful about a bleak, wind swept upper Midwest winterscape? Trees that stand in silhouette to a nearly always sunless sky speak to me on a visceral level. They frame the past year and prepare me for the coming rebirth that spring and all its greenness will bring. But, I digress, again and now, back to our story.
Turns out, the 9 year old had packed the sickness along for the trip and she was ready to graphically tell me about or unpack, pick your metaphor. As we strolled through the pool area to see the fun that lay ahead, big water slide, nice, lazy river, looks good, hot tub half of which is outdoors in the 30 degree cold, brilliant, my 9 year old says, "Daddy, I have to throw-up."
"Quick," I say, "let's go back to the room."
No such luck. Seconds later, she throws-up on the pool deck. And so, the network spreads.
The 9 year-old spent the next 11 hours in bed soaking up the Sponge Bob X-mas special and more episodes of Hannah Montana than anyone needs. By 10 the next morning, Santa had brought a Christmas miracle, she was fine and she spent two days water sliding. I have the pictures to prove it.
And then the calls came rolling in. A Milwaukee caller reports that my father-in-law has chills, body aches and gave a loving kiss to the porcelain god. Another Wisconsin caller reports that my 15 year-old nephew and 12 year-old niece have both spilled their guts. The network spreads.
By yesterday (12/26), I had a raging headache and began to wonder if it was my turn. I felt a churn in my stomach and feared it was potluck time (when the pot has all the luck and you have none). But, that was not to be. I was fine and the sickness has cleared my house completely. Somehow, I went unscathed. I feel so left out.
Did I mention that I haven't thrown-up since 1987? True story.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Free Parking
I started the morning with a full head of steam and headed on down to one of our local university hospitals to pick up the results of my recent bone density scan. You see, I called first and was told that they wouldn't fax the results to me because I hadn't signed the privacy policy/records release form. Annoying, but hey, it's for my protection right? We don't want a confusing set of medical documents that need to be interpreted by an endocrinologist floating around to unmonitored fax numbers. For God sake, someone may still have an old time fax machine that my sensitive records could spill out of. Oh the horror of all that curly paper revealing my inner most. OK, dead horse beaten, you get it. But really, why can't an identity thief steal the bad stuff too?
I showed up early, I requested my records and the helpful desk jockey did what she had been trained to do:
"Mr. Fogel, please take a seat."
So I scanned the massive waiting room -- think garage large enough for two Ford Excursions - for an empty seat, found one and shook up the room demographic a bit. Yee ha. I did get a nice opportunity to learn about the pregnancy of poor little, moneyed Jamie Lynn Spears. Seems to me that she has lost her right to choose, should she have wanted to exercise it. Once everybody knows, can you still, um, well, end your pregnancy? Maybe that is the solution.
So I sat and sat and sat and sat (guess the children's book that comes from and you will win a less than fabulous prize) and finally my name was called.
"Mr. Fogel, one problem (there were to be others), our system is down and they are just now trying to reboot it."
Can major city university hospitals reboot in the middle of the workday? Guess so.
Back to my seat and more entertainment news.
Finally, I was called up and who should I see but my nice tech who gave the panic-inducing wet read of my test three days ago.
"Hello, Mr. Fogel, nice to see you again," she intoned.
Lots of image this, and report hasn't been written that and finally she tells me no report has been written BUT even if it had, I don't get to see it. Time out. I called. I was told come down and sign the form and I would be heading back to my daily routine with my report in hand. Turns out, that wasn't really the case.
Immediately, I switched into the low, deliberate, but clearly pissed voice. "I spent an hour and a half here. I was told . . . Your system was down . . . My time was wasted . . . ."
"No problem, Mr. Fogel," a voice from behind the desk said.
I looked up to see a clearly clerical worker who wasn't a part of my conversation with Super Tech and she said "We'll give you a sticker, you are parked in the garage, right?"
"Um, yeah, I am, " says I.
"We'll give you a sticker so you don't have to pay for parking."
So, there I was, 90 or so minutes into this ordeal, my brain brimming with Jamie Spears knowledge (she puts out, but use your own protection because she doesn't use any) and no one cares about that, but they are going to give me free parking.
Oh well, it's better than nothing. At least I wouldn't be driving back to work pissed and out $6 for parking.
Free parking. Thanks.
I showed up early, I requested my records and the helpful desk jockey did what she had been trained to do:
"Mr. Fogel, please take a seat."
So I scanned the massive waiting room -- think garage large enough for two Ford Excursions - for an empty seat, found one and shook up the room demographic a bit. Yee ha. I did get a nice opportunity to learn about the pregnancy of poor little, moneyed Jamie Lynn Spears. Seems to me that she has lost her right to choose, should she have wanted to exercise it. Once everybody knows, can you still, um, well, end your pregnancy? Maybe that is the solution.
So I sat and sat and sat and sat (guess the children's book that comes from and you will win a less than fabulous prize) and finally my name was called.
"Mr. Fogel, one problem (there were to be others), our system is down and they are just now trying to reboot it."
Can major city university hospitals reboot in the middle of the workday? Guess so.
Back to my seat and more entertainment news.
Finally, I was called up and who should I see but my nice tech who gave the panic-inducing wet read of my test three days ago.
"Hello, Mr. Fogel, nice to see you again," she intoned.
Lots of image this, and report hasn't been written that and finally she tells me no report has been written BUT even if it had, I don't get to see it. Time out. I called. I was told come down and sign the form and I would be heading back to my daily routine with my report in hand. Turns out, that wasn't really the case.
Immediately, I switched into the low, deliberate, but clearly pissed voice. "I spent an hour and a half here. I was told . . . Your system was down . . . My time was wasted . . . ."
"No problem, Mr. Fogel," a voice from behind the desk said.
I looked up to see a clearly clerical worker who wasn't a part of my conversation with Super Tech and she said "We'll give you a sticker, you are parked in the garage, right?"
"Um, yeah, I am, " says I.
"We'll give you a sticker so you don't have to pay for parking."
So, there I was, 90 or so minutes into this ordeal, my brain brimming with Jamie Spears knowledge (she puts out, but use your own protection because she doesn't use any) and no one cares about that, but they are going to give me free parking.
Oh well, it's better than nothing. At least I wouldn't be driving back to work pissed and out $6 for parking.
Free parking. Thanks.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Got Sardines?
The downward spiral continued this week that started with an off the cuff remark by a resident at my doctor's office. I was in ostensibly to make sure my brace fit and to fill my basket with the no-no upon no-no of activities that could affect the healing of my foot. My unimpressive, difficult to find, hidden, little stress fracture. But, resident's have to be thorough so they can get the brownie points from the boss.
With my doctor out of the room, the resident asked if I had ever had a bone density scan. I quipped that I had never heard of one. He launched into a lecture series on bone density and osteo-this-that-and-the-other-thing. During the post-lecture Q&A, I asked if that was mostly just a problem for the Mah Jong set? Turns out, he says, that anyone can have low bone density and that may explain my fracture. Funny right, this isn't Grandma Edna slipping in the parking lot at Kohl's fracturing a hip and then suddenly six weeks later her poor, bereaved family is eating a bagel with whitefish salad at her Shiva call wondering how it all happened so fast. "She was so vibrant, I can't believe she died buying Hanukkah presents."
No! This was me, runner, cyclist and healthy eater. I was only in this damn boot because I went too damn fast in a trail race, twisted my ankle (twice) and then didn't wait long enough for it to heal before setting out to run the Turkey Trot. I am not an old lady. I am a stupid, middle aged man who likes endurance sports. That said, my doctor wrote the prescription and his helpful (tongue so far in cheek it pokes a hole all the way through) receptionist made the appointment for me so I could get a DEXA scan.
DEXA scan? What the hell is that? Well, here you go:
Dexa stands for ‘Dual Energy X-ray Absorptiometry’. It is the most commonly used test for measuring bone mineral density. It is the best way to diagnosis osteopenia or osteoporosis.
Source: http://www.osteopenia3.com/dexa-scans.html
The actual test takes minutes, but like so many things in life, a few minutes can change your life. I was told not to drink any milk the day of the test -- this would prove to be the irony of all this. I was asked to lay on a table and then the laser scanner swept across my body. It felt like I as being faxed or prepared to be attached to an email. Turns out, neither of those jokes are funny.
Results are immediate and are divided into T scores and Z scores. I don't really remember what a Z score is, but I am going to update this when I get more info. And, scores are divided into hip and spine scores. My hip was good, so Edna and I won't meet the same fate and her share of the candy dish at next week's Canasta mixer is all mine if I can make it past the piles of snow that Chicago can't seem to remove from the sidewalks. (Aside/just wondering: does the same department write the parking tickets and clear the snow? Seems like you could just write the tickets, collect your double OT and say there were too many cars to plow and then go back later, get some more OT after your overtime loving brother-in-law who drives the tow truck pulls the cars out of your way so you can plow, but I digress).
My spine score was not good and now I am faced with the prospect of osteopenia, which sounds dirty, but is so far from being dirty as to be just plain sad.
How exciting is this news? So wonderful that my Google searching has headed in a new direction. No bike porn today, no political rants and no checking to see how the bond market is doing, instead, I stared at the blinking cursor in the search box and typed: calcium rich foods. And, guess what I discovered? Sardines in the can (which does sound dirty), top the list.
Odd fish the sardine. Used more liberally as a metaphor than a food.
Sardines? Who knew?
With my doctor out of the room, the resident asked if I had ever had a bone density scan. I quipped that I had never heard of one. He launched into a lecture series on bone density and osteo-this-that-and-the-other-thing. During the post-lecture Q&A, I asked if that was mostly just a problem for the Mah Jong set? Turns out, he says, that anyone can have low bone density and that may explain my fracture. Funny right, this isn't Grandma Edna slipping in the parking lot at Kohl's fracturing a hip and then suddenly six weeks later her poor, bereaved family is eating a bagel with whitefish salad at her Shiva call wondering how it all happened so fast. "She was so vibrant, I can't believe she died buying Hanukkah presents."
No! This was me, runner, cyclist and healthy eater. I was only in this damn boot because I went too damn fast in a trail race, twisted my ankle (twice) and then didn't wait long enough for it to heal before setting out to run the Turkey Trot. I am not an old lady. I am a stupid, middle aged man who likes endurance sports. That said, my doctor wrote the prescription and his helpful (tongue so far in cheek it pokes a hole all the way through) receptionist made the appointment for me so I could get a DEXA scan.
DEXA scan? What the hell is that? Well, here you go:
Dexa stands for ‘Dual Energy X-ray Absorptiometry’. It is the most commonly used test for measuring bone mineral density. It is the best way to diagnosis osteopenia or osteoporosis.
Source: http://www.osteopenia3.com/dexa-scans.html
The actual test takes minutes, but like so many things in life, a few minutes can change your life. I was told not to drink any milk the day of the test -- this would prove to be the irony of all this. I was asked to lay on a table and then the laser scanner swept across my body. It felt like I as being faxed or prepared to be attached to an email. Turns out, neither of those jokes are funny.
Results are immediate and are divided into T scores and Z scores. I don't really remember what a Z score is, but I am going to update this when I get more info. And, scores are divided into hip and spine scores. My hip was good, so Edna and I won't meet the same fate and her share of the candy dish at next week's Canasta mixer is all mine if I can make it past the piles of snow that Chicago can't seem to remove from the sidewalks. (Aside/just wondering: does the same department write the parking tickets and clear the snow? Seems like you could just write the tickets, collect your double OT and say there were too many cars to plow and then go back later, get some more OT after your overtime loving brother-in-law who drives the tow truck pulls the cars out of your way so you can plow, but I digress).
My spine score was not good and now I am faced with the prospect of osteopenia, which sounds dirty, but is so far from being dirty as to be just plain sad.
How exciting is this news? So wonderful that my Google searching has headed in a new direction. No bike porn today, no political rants and no checking to see how the bond market is doing, instead, I stared at the blinking cursor in the search box and typed: calcium rich foods. And, guess what I discovered? Sardines in the can (which does sound dirty), top the list.
Odd fish the sardine. Used more liberally as a metaphor than a food.
Sardines? Who knew?
Monday, December 10, 2007
Not Embracing the Brace
Last Friday now serves as my personal running Groundhog Day. My foot saw it's shadow (or, rather, my doctor saw the shadow on my MRI that told him I had a stress fracture) and now it's six more weeks until I can run (or cycle). The prescription is for a a full length boot to stabilize my foot. On Friday, I went to Prosthetic Limbs-r-Us and tried on the boot. Mercifully, it didn't fit, but it let me know what I was facing. Of course it won't be the dandy, bright yellow boot (the Denver Boot, Chicago Style) pictured above, but that would sure be a conversation starter.
The pretty item shown just above will be my new friend for my six weeks of personal winter. My toes aren't quite that attractive. I think I will wear a sock with it.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Fractured and Stressed
For a few weeks, I have been toying with a post here titled "Scared Crit-less" that reflected back on August 26 of this year in my debut crit. That's me in the Quick Step jersey (in blue) on the left side of the photo. And I will write about it because it is a sort of funny athletic tale about how to measure success and failure. The big fear of that day was crashing. I had watched crits and seen harrowing crashes. I didn't want any part of that. On August 26, I didn't crash.Ironic then, that I now find myself with a stress fracture in my right foot after six weeks of running. Read the excitement in prior posts as I returned to running and all that is on hold now. This is a long story. More coming.
On Fathers and Sons
Some days require perspective, some give it. Today was the latter somehow. I started the day crawling into bed with my three year old for a quick tickle fest to kick off a long day. As we lay there and laughed, I just felt so much joy. Not advertised, but I just felt it. It was like a warm blanket minutes after you pull it up to the neck and your body heat teams with the blanket and you feel your temperature begin to rise. It is at once insulating and comforting. This was that with the added benefit of a hysterically laughing, kicking and squirming three year old.Joy part two came when I went into to wake the seven year old. Morning light splashed his face but didn't rouse him. I woke him and he wanted to know the outcome of the Bears/Redskins game. He was excited to learn that the Bears had lost. We had a laugh, a hug and then I moved on.
Hours later, I was at UIC hospital between MRI and X-ray that would reveal a stress fracture in my foot when my mother called me. She ostensibly called to talk about a legal document that concerned her, that needed immediate attention, but that wasn't the entire call. The backdrop was that my father, 81 and on dialysis was taking a turn for the worse so says his doctor and that he might die in a month or a year or tomorrow, but probably not. I couldn't speak for a moment (rare for me) as I absorbed that. I still struggle with it and it is hours later.
Funny to be so caught up in moments of fatherhood and in being a son in the same day. I doubt I am the only one in town who had a day like that.
The pictures above are on my desk at work. They don't really sit side by side, but do for the shot I post here. On the left, I stand with my boys earlier this year. We are standing before Buckingham Fountain in downtown Chicago. My daughter, age 9 (and not pictured here) did a wonderful job of capturing the simple happiness of the moment. That she was taking the picture served no small part of my smiling in the picture. My own father introduced me to photography and I want to give that to my daughter. More on that soon.
The picture on the right was taken in Fort Wayne in front of the Allen County Courthouse, most likely in 1966 or thereabouts. I am closest to my father there. Telling, perhaps, but I was young then. I mentioned the picture to him on the phone tonight and he remembered the picture with certainty, but the exact moment not as much.
A father. A son. A brother. A husband. A friend. So many parts we play. Some bring joy. But I am not feeling much joy just now.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Back on the DL
Was it inevitable? I spent an entire summer logging miles on my bike, 2,500 miles to be exact. I got faster, I lost weight, I entered a race, I rode in a century and it was all good. Then October came, temps were cooler (except on the day of the LBCM) and I decided to return to running. I started slow and slowly. I limited myself to 30 minutes per run and only 3 runs per week. I was building up slowly. Even with that limited amount of running, I was getting stronger. Things that used to hurt, were no longer hurting. That's good, right?
Then comes the two for the price of one ankle sprains at the trail race. Undeterred, I load up on ice and ibuprofen. Leg felt good. Ankle turned in all the directions it was supposed to -- not like an owl's head, but similar to the way the left one worked. I couldn't cut like an NFL running back, but that never comes up for me. And then, I hit the turkey trot and it hit back.
The diagnosis is six weeks off (more on this).
So here I am, back on the disabled list. I would love to play, but I am the guy on the sidelines in street clothes. Out of place, wearing a tie when other guys are in pads and helmets sitting on the warming bench. Not really, but that's how I feel.
Wait 'til next year.
Then comes the two for the price of one ankle sprains at the trail race. Undeterred, I load up on ice and ibuprofen. Leg felt good. Ankle turned in all the directions it was supposed to -- not like an owl's head, but similar to the way the left one worked. I couldn't cut like an NFL running back, but that never comes up for me. And then, I hit the turkey trot and it hit back.
The diagnosis is six weeks off (more on this).
So here I am, back on the disabled list. I would love to play, but I am the guy on the sidelines in street clothes. Out of place, wearing a tie when other guys are in pads and helmets sitting on the warming bench. Not really, but that's how I feel.
Wait 'til next year.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Floyd looking ahead to 2008
Back in June as the cicadas were in full hum, it seemed as if the clock was tragically running out for Floyd. And yet, here she stands, strong as ever. She still chases the ball with vigor and looks so beautiful.
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