How I Broke My Butt; A Femoral Neck Stress Fracture Story

Disclaimer, I’m on painkillers.

I had just finished my first sprint triathlon. You know, the one that I’ve been talking about for months now. It had been hard work, training for the triathlon, but it was fun—in a masochistic sort of way—and kind of addictive. So when it was over I wanted to keep up my momentum. Keep training. Keep moving forward. I signed up to play fall singles tennis. I was making plans to run a Ragnar race with some friends in the spring, and I registered for a local 5K race. Of course, I was still swimming, cycling and running whenever I could too. I was riding my post-tri high.

One crisp Tuesday morning I woke up before the sun to squeeze in a morning run. My neighborhood isn’t very big. I’d been running a route that was about 2.8 miles, which wasn’t quite as far as I’d like, but it got me home in time to get the kids ready for school. The temperature was perfect and the sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon as I started at a brisk pace. I was pushing myself to get just a little faster because my 5K was only a few days away and I was determined to place in the top 3 for my age division. Medals were my new drug and I needed more.

I followed the twists and turns of my neighborhood’s streets, going up and down and around streets, paths, and cul-de-sacs. The earbuds in my ears played that month’s book club selection, the audiobook version of Catch Me If You Can—a little ironic, in hindsight. My neon Niked steps pounded the pavement as Frank Abagnale eluded the FBI yet again. I picked up speed going down a particularly steep hill, and I felt a twinge of pain in my left hip, but I didn’t think much of it. The pain wasn’t severe and I suspected it was just a pulled muscle. I continued my run and finished in 24:35, an average pace of 8:31/mi. Though not as good as I hoped, it was one of my faster times.

When I got home the pain in my hip still bothered me a little, but there was no time to worry about it. My day was cram-packed with chauffeuring kids, chores around the house and errands to run. That evening I was invited to play tennis with a group of friends. I was the worst tennis player of the group, but I wasn’t about to turn down an opportunity to improve my game, so I accepted the invitation and even offered to host at my neighborhood’s courts. Trying to ignore the pain, I played very poorly for a couple of hours before I decided to sit out.

The next morning the pain was still there and I was walking with a slight limp, but it wasn’t something I was worried about. I knew running was probably not the best idea, so I went swimming and cycling instead. 14 laps in the pool and 10.7 miles on the bike later and my hip didn’t feel any worse, but it didn’t feel any better either. I knew I should probably take it easy so that I would feel well enough to run my 5K, so the next day I only swam laps and the following day I didn’t train at all.

The night before the 5K The Hubster and I went out on a date. He became a little concerned when he noticed I was lifting my left leg with my hands to get out of the car. “It’s just a little muscle weakness. It’s fine as soon as I stand up.” I said.

“Do you think you should be running a 5K tomorrow if you can’t even raise your leg out of the car?” he asked.

“Of course! It’ll be fine. I already paid to run this race and I’m pretty sure I can win a medal. Don’t worry.”

“Okay, but if you run this race in the morning, you better be willing to accept the consequences. I don’t know what’s wrong with your leg, but I’d say there’s a good chance you won’t be able to walk for a few days afterwards.” The Hubster said while we waited for our pizza at Mellow Mushroom.

“Nonsense! I’ll be fine. Besides, winning a medal will be worth a few days of soreness.”

The following morning The Hubster the kiddos, and I all piled in the van and headed to the Baptist church a few miles down the street where the race was being hosted. My hip was still bothering me, but I could walk without much of a limp, so I figured running would be fine. Besides, it was only 3 short miles and I planned to get it over with quickly.

The Hubster looked at me skeptically as we made our way to the starting line. “I’m fine.” I insisted, trying to convince him and myself it was true. He snapped pictures as I lined up for the race. And then we were off. I tried to find my regular pace while people ebbed and flowed around me. In my ears I listened to a conference talk because I had a feeling I might need divine intervention to get through my run. The course was reasonably flat, and trees shaded the street, blessedly preventing the lingering summer heat from draining all my energy. Several children kept pace with me, swarming like busy little flies, weaving back and forth in my path. I noticed that I was trying hard not to spend much time on my left leg. I’d put it down and pick it up more quickly and tenderly than my right, but I didn’t think it was effecting my pace. In fact, it was making me more eager to finish, and my chest was heaving for breath because of it. I slowed briefly as I passed the watering station, hardly able to drink because my breathing was so labored. As I started back towards the church and the finish line, I knew something was very very wrong with my hip, but there was a woman my age not too far ahead and I knew that if she finished before me I might not place, so I trudged on. Step by step, I finally caught up with her and then passed her, but it came at a cost. My hip began to hurt so much that I wasn’t sure if I should keep running. For a moment I listened to my body and slowed to a walk about a half a mile away from the finish line. It hurt to walk too, but it felt good to catch my breath. A few moments after I started walking the woman passed me and something inside me snapped. I couldn’t let this happen! If it hurt to walk just as much as it hurt to run, then by golly I was going to run!

I started to run again, but my gait was awkward and every time my left foot hit the ground pain shot up into my hip, groin and butt. Sweat poured down my face induced more by pain than from heat. The woman was too far ahead of me and there was no way I could catch her, but I didn’t want to let anyone else pass me. The finish line was within site, but my left leg wasn’t as eager to get there as I was. It practically dragged behind me as I hopped along on my right leg. I could see The Hubster just on the other side of the finish line with the camera and I motioned for him to come closer. As I crossed the over the line I collapsed into his open arms. That was it. Crossing that finish line was pretty much the last unassisted step I’ve taken in over a month. I sat and waited for everyone else to finish the race and then The Hubster held me up while the awards were being announced. I had been right about that woman that finished before me. She won 1^st place in my age division. I won 2^nd having finished in 26:30, my fastest time. The Hubster helped me limp up and accept my medal while everyone wondered how on earth a cripple had come in 2^nd place.

For the next two days I laid around, unable to put any weight on my leg. The pain ached even while sitting. It hurt all over my left butt cheek which led me to believe that I had developed piriformis syndrome. I used ice, heat, Epson salt baths, a tens machine, ibuprofen, Tylenol, I even let a friend rub oils on me in an effort to ease my discomfort. After nearly a week of pain, my good friend, a yoga instructor and Thai masseuse, came over and helped me roll out my piriformis muscles. I definitely had pain in that area, but she suspected there might be something else going on. I mentioned that I once was diagnosed with low bone density and she advised me to go see a doctor. She wasn’t the first one to suggest this. The Hubster and other family members had said the same, but I hadn’t chosen to listen until this moment. I asked around and found a good orthopedist. Her first available appointment was a week away and I had every intention of canceling the appointment when my hip started to feel better…but it didn’t feel better. The piriformis pain had eased up a little, but I still couldn’t walk, so I went to my appointment.

I was fully expecting to hear that I was a pansy with a torn muscle and I just needed to walk it off, but that’s not what I heard. They did an x-ray, but couldn’t see a problem, which again confirmed my pansy suspicion, but Doctor Albert ordered an MRI. I went in for the MRI a few days later, sick to my stomach about how much this test was going to cost and it could all be for nothing. I lay in that loud machine half hoping they’d find nothing for my health’s sake, and half hoping they’d find something to justify this extravagance.

Within hours Dr. Albert’s nurse called to tell me that I had a stress fracture, that I needed to keep off my left leg, and that I should come in first thing the next morning. Of course I had googled the crap out of stress fractures already, so I knew what this meant, but I wasn’t prepared for the counsel I was given. At my appointment the following day, Dr. Albert told me that my injury was serious and that she was considering putting screws in my femoral neck to stabilize the bone. She said it so casually, as if cutting me open and drilling construction hardware into my bone was as normal as ordering a salad at Chick-fil-a. Sure, not the most exciting option, but sometimes it’s better to be health conscious. I said no. Don’t get me wrong, I know that salads are better for your body sometimes, but milkshakes (aka no surgery) sounded so much nicer.  She was reluctant to allow me the milkshake, but she finally agreed and told me I might still need the salad at my next appointment in two weeks. The cherry on top was a handicapped parking pass! But I was given strict instructions to stay off my left leg. Crutches all day, every day. Sure, sure. I got this…maybe.

Turns out crutches suck. You can’t carry things, you can’t move very fast, your arms and hands hurt like the dickens. Sometimes hopping seemed like the better option. But, I was determined to not let the crutches get me down. I even decorated them for Witches Night Out (an event I MC every year.)

Overall, I was pretty good about staying off my leg and I didn’t have any accidents, until one day…

I thought I was getting good at speed crutching and one morning I was in a super big hurry. I needed to run into Kroger to grab a couple of things super quick. I was crossing the parking lot, trying to get out of the way of oncoming cars when my left crutch got too far ahead of me. It slipped out from under my arm and my weight came down hard on my left leg. Pain shot through my hip like a bullet tearing through bone and flesh as I tried not to crumple to the ground in agony. I managed to stay on my feet and slowly crutch into the store. I got my items and spent the rest of the coming days in a newly invigorated pain.

When I went in for my follow-up appointment a week later, Dr. Albert wasn’t asking anymore, she was insisting that I have the surgery. There was evidence on my x-rays that the fracture might be worsening and she wasn’t willing to risk the chance that “someone” would not stay down long enough to recover and thereby break her leg completely in half. Dr. Albert scheduled the surgery for the following week and I was terrified. I tried to play it cool, but I couldn’t hold back my tears. My thoughts were erratic. “I’m too young to get screws in my hip.” “The TSA is going to body search me at the airport now.” “What if the anesthesia kills me?” “I’ll have foreign objects inside me forever, like a boob job but without the boobs.” “I’ll never be able to look at screws with indifference again.” And then, to make my inner turmoil worse, my hip started feeling better in the days leading up to the surgery. I kept asking friends and family, “Do I really need this?” To which they always said something like, “Maybe?” And then followed it up with a bunch of garbage about not being doctors or some crap like that. But in the end it didn’t matter. The doctor had spoken, and who am I to know better? Though the knife hadn’t begun to cut, the surgery was already underway. I had scheduled it, filled out forms for it, and paid for it. It was happening.

So, 4 days ago I had 2 pins drilled into my femoral neck. Pain, lots of pain. My surgery was late in the day, so they kept me there overnight. You know how sometimes you dreamily look at the hospital and think that being there might actually help you get some rest? Stop thinking that. Never think that again. I woke up after surgery in the recovery room gasping for breath and in excruciating pain like someone had just drilled holes in my bones. Wait. Yep, that happened. They put me on a sweet cocktail of meds that dulled the pain, but I still couldn’t move, or sleep, or eat. I had to pee in a bedpan for crying out loud! A bedpan! It didn’t go well. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The nurses were sweet, but carrying on conversations with them every hour through the night was exhausting. The Hubster stayed there with me, sweet guy. But he may as well have been at home because he slept like the dead on a couch in the corner of my hospital room.

Since I’ve been home I’ve been trying to stay off painkillers, but there have been a few times when they were necessary. Like the first night I was home and I decided to go to my church trunk-or-treat and chili cook-off after spending the afternoon making said chili. With Percocets on board I was only half present at the event, but it helped keep me in character since I was sitting in a wheelchair and still wearing my hospital gown. I only placed 3^rd in the chili cook-off, but I won creepiest adult costume? I must’ve been drooling a lot.

So that’s the story of how I broke my butt (stress fracture of the left femoral neck, but whatever.) The moral is, listen to your body and don’t run faster than your butt can carry you.