I’ve had a bizarre-o week. There’s no other way to put it. And I blame running.

Last Sunday I went for a long run, my first after my big half-marathon effort. I felt great, cruising for 14 miles, capable of more, when my left knee started to throb below my knee cap. I stopped to stretch out my quad. I jogged a few paces and the pain returned. Stretched again. Jogged again. Pain again. So I walked the last half mile to my house and called it a day.

Jack benched me for the week, sent me to the Arc for cardio and instructed me to ice every 2 hours. Another week off running did not thrill me, but I would have to deal. I was thinking more about the testing I was going to have to troubleshoot my stomach cramps. My GP was throwing in a baseline bone density test because osteoporosis runs in my family.

Monday I had the bone density test. Didn’t think much of it. Non-invasive, I’m only 32,  I do work out a bit, and my period is more or less normal, so there was no reason to think much about it.

Tuesday I had blood work done to test my electrolytes. This is what my doctor and I were really interested in, thinking it might shed some light on my stomach issues.

Wednesday Henry came home from school sick. I feel for the poor kid, and I hate to admit it, but every time he gets sick, I kind of go nuts because we’re stuck in the house. When I’m not running, my antsyness makes it even worse.

This brings me to today, Thursday. Last week I decided to just go for the tattoo. Enough talking about it, already. So I made the appointment for late this afternoon. I didn’t know I’d be benched from running all week, gradually losing my mind, feeling more and more off kilter.

Today moved in slow motion. Lacking for endorphins all week, I was chomping for something–anything–interesting to happen. Finally, I could leave for Cambridge. I live north of Boston, but Cambridge is my home. We spent six years there–the most intellectually satisfying years of my life–and were sad to leave for the suburbs when Henry was a year old. We came here for the good schools and the good parking and not much else. This town is where I live, but when I get to go back to Cambridge, I really do feel more alive.

My tattoo plan, I have to confess, was still sort of nebulous on the drive in. I knew I wanted two, but I wasn’t entirely sure of the placement. One would be a crimson wing, the other an aboriginal snake design. When they’re not inked in a drunken state, the significance of a person’s tattoos should be so personal and extensive that you could write a book on it. Which is why I won’t explain the litany of meanings behind my choices on my blog. I am a runner, the color Crimson marked my most satisfying period in life, and I was born in the Year of the Snake. Snakes also represent all of my fears, the things that I both run toward and away from. And that is all you get to know about the meaning of snakes for me.

I didn’t know if I’d go for both today, and if just one, which one I’d get. I needed to talk to the guy. In the car, my doctor called. The electrolyte test came back normal. Yay! We would let my nutritionist help me figure out the cramping.

The bone density test showed that at 32, I have osteopenia in my spine.

It’s not a cancer diagnosis, and it’s not osteoporosis. But it freaks me out. My spine is thinning even though I do everything I’m supposed to do to be strong. I can treat it by taking the Pill (TMI? Deal with it) and retest in two years to see if the bone is regrowing. But as a runner and a woman who prides herself on her strength, I was really stunned by the results.

So in the car, I decided to get a snake tattooed on my back and a wing on my ankle. I needed to remind myself that this business with my spine is not a metaphor. I am strong. I am not weak. I have a backbone, thankyouverymuch. I also have a genetic tendency toward osteoporosis and a long line of ectomorphs in my family. I wanted to stamp that snake next to my spine to make this point to myself.

Unfortunately, the dude said the snake I wanted would have to be about 3 times as big to come out pretty.

Dang.

So I have to pick another snake that will work without running the length of my vertebrae. Tonight, I went with the wing on my ankle, which speaks volumes to my doctor’s call anyway. It is running that has given me my spine, and without it, the deterioration of my backbone would probably be worse. In other ways less literal, running has saved me from myself. For a very long time, I’ve felt a little bad to focus so much on this sport, to let it be the essence of who I am when I’ll never train at an elite level. But tough shit; it’s who I am.

I got to Redemption Tattoo a little before my appointment and talked to Josh about my wing and my snake. He’d  sketched the wing I’d emailed him and scaled the size down a tad. My sister and niece met me there to be my labor coaches. I loved that my 8-year-old niece asked to come. When she was four, I took her with me to get my belly button repierced. She watched the whole thing, completely enthralled and unfazed. So of course I’d take her for my tattoo.

Josh put a fake version on my ankle to test the positioning and once we settled on how it would be angled, I got up on the table, rolled onto my side, much like when I was in labor, and gritted my teeth.

No epidural was offered. Not even a shot of vodka.

HOLY JESUS. GOOD MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS PEACE AND BEAUTY. THAT SHIT HURT.

It took about 40 minutes from start to finish, and there may have been some very wimpy groaning on my part. There was definitely some scraping across my ankle bone on his part, not to mention my tendon or something that caused my foot to twitch every time he sliced that needle across my skin. The color fill hurt more than the outlining. I was not a good patient, but Josh–toothpick between his teeth–quietly did his thing while my niece gave me the synopsis of her eco-themed school play. To distract me, my sister and I discussed the details of bone density and osteoporosis, which was more than a little incongruent with the tattoo parlor full of dudes with dragons and skulls inked on their arms. As I looked at a drawing of a voluptuous naked woman on the wall next to my face, all I could think was, “Wonder what her bone density is…? Will she take Fosamax?”

Eventually Josh stopped torturing me, and I was inked. Ever the cowardly mother, I confessed my move to Henry on the phone. He was not pleased. I tried to tell him it would make me faster. He didn’t buy it. “It’s not a real wing, you know, Mama. How exactly will it make you faster?”

“I’ll see you when I get home, Hen.”

He likes it, now that he’s seen it, but he’s not exactly enthusiastic. He did say, “It looks like you’re a runner.”

Yes, yes I am.

So here is my tattoo. If you don’t like it, blame running.