I started physical therapy this week for a hamstring injury. It is silly. Lie down on your back. Bend your leg up toward your chest. Ooooh. Feel the burn.
Sorry, but I don’t really feel much of anything. I don’t experience a strain, a hard tug, a twinge of pain. And that’s the point, says my physical therapist. I’m retraining my body after an injury, not punishing it for getting injured in the first place. I wouldn’t go to a mental health therapist who treats my fear of clowns by wearing a rainbow wig and facepaint; I shouldn’t expect my physical therapist to contort my limbs like Auntie Anne’s pretzels.
It’s those expectations that get me into trouble. When I was training last summer, I expected my body to run like a well-oiled machine, despite my lack of attention to strength training, adequate sleep or proper hydration. Once injured, I expected my body to heal quickly, defying all the laws of physiology, anatomy and gravity. Upon receiving the death sentence (“no more running”), I expected my family and friends to grieve with me, keening for my loss and offering sympathy bouquets, back rubs and Kit Kats. None of this happened.
A friend once told me that expectations are simply premeditated resentments. I get irritated when the world doesn’t follow my script or adhere to my schedule. I want what I want when I want it, whether it’s in my best interest or not, apparently.
It reminds me my first pet, Pytheas the Gerbil. My sister Barb named him after the Greek explorer, and much like his namesake, he spent most of his days attempting to explore the world outside his little cage. Unfortunately for him, his cage was a glass aquarium set on a high bookshelf, so he wasted hours diligently scratching at the corners, certain that someday, as Gerbil-God was his witness, he was going to break free and traverse the carpeted hinterlands. Unbeknownst to Pytheas, directly below his cage and just out of sight, sat our obese tomcat, Cree. Every day, that gerbil would digdigdig, begging Gerbil-God to set him free. And every day, Cree would watchwatchwatch, begging Cat-God to do the same.
I don’t want to find out what predator lies in wait for me as I slowly regain my strength. This time, I am paying attention to all the signals my body — and the world — are sending me. Case in point: A few weeks ago I was determined to start biking, even though I did not have clearance from my medical team. But heck, since I always know what’s best for me … right? I went to remove my bike from its rack in the garage and discovered a robin’s nest, complete with four perfect blue eggs, perched atop my wheel. Removing the nest would get me what I wanted, but it most certainly would have meant disaster to those tiny birds. Perhaps the universe was reminding me that I need to trust its timing. Perhaps Bird-God heard Mama robin’s prayers. Whatever the reason, I left my bike and its tenants intact.
Silly or not, I’m following my physical therapist’s every instruction. She’s ready to help me hit the road again, as long as I’m ready to let go of my expectations and slowly work my way back into my running shoes. I hope to run a 5k in late summer, but we’ll see what Runner-God has planned.
Teresa Keyes began running in 2006. She and her husband, Corey, have two kids, one dog, two cats, four baby birds and one slightly nervous mother robin. She can be reached via Facebook. 
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