Why you should probably take it easy after a marathon. . .

So last Friday, I went out for a run. The plan; a five or six mile run at a pretty relaxed pace; my muscles were still protesting a bit if I try to put too much stress on them; the marathon was only two weeks into the past. The plan didn't work out.

One mile in, I stopped where the path crosses a fairly busy road, and was promptly slammed with pain. Later, people in the ER would ask: is it a dull pain, a stabbing pain? It was both, and more. I could hardly stand up, and it was difficult to breath. I ended up sitting down on the path for a bit, trying to figure out what was happening. The obvious occurred to me too, and I felt for my pulse. It was fine; good even, considering I'd just run a mile, it was downright slow. It was difficult to believe I was having a heart attack. After a bit, I managed to get up and walk, very slowly home.

The pain persisted at home, and the wife persisted that I needed to visit the ER. The pain was bad enough, and random enough, and I was scared enough, that I eventually agreed. The ER took me in and promptly hooked me up to all kinds of machines, after shaving two little bald spots in my chest hair. They put an IV hook up in my arm. At this point the wife went from looking concerned to downright terrified.

Anyway--to get to how this story turns out--the ER decided it was 'chest wall pain' which I thought was one of those hoax diagnoses. "Doctor, my arm hurts," I say. "Yes, I am a doctor, and I went to medical school where I learned that you have what is called--in the medical community--ARM PAIN! Take some Advil. Call me next week. That will be a billion dollars." That's kind of what happened.

Well, not quite. To be fair, the staff at the ER was extremely competent, and did all kinds of tests to rule out heart attack, cardiac arrest, blood clots, etc. I looked up 'chest wall pain' on the Google machine, and it turns out that it is this odd syndrome that no one seems to know much about. Since people don't really die of it--I guess--there isn't a lot of research money being funneled that way.

So I spent Saturday of last week flat on my back popping Advil every few hours while this Bob Seger tribute band played outside my apartment window. I did the reverse stages of grief with that band. When they first started playing at noon I accepted it, and was grateful that they were at least competent. By 8pm, the fourth or fifth repetition of "Still the Same" was wearing thin, and I was both angry and in denial at the same time. By 9pm I was in a very dark emotional hole.

The lesson kids? Don't lift a bunch of weights and go for a mile and half swim at a brisk pace shortly after running a marathon. And don't live across from the site of a motorcycle rally with questionable taste in hiring tribute bands if you can help it.