I’m nine days out from the British, and still getting the work in, and still going through the traditional rollercoaster feelings from the highs of “aw yes, I’m pretty good at this stuff” swooping down to the stomach-lurching “argh, I forgot how to bench” via “why is this suddenly heavy?!” and “weird, did I forget to put those extra 5kg plates on?”
Add in the surreal pre-competition dreams, and this is the now-expected ebb and flow. Even though I have learned to expect it, I still get caught out by the emotions that come with the ups and downs. Until I remember that it’s just what happens, and then it becomes rather reassuring. It’s just part of the process, like fretting about how fat my knees look when I wear a singlet.
Less predictable: the bureaucratic challenges
Most of the real roller-coastering, however, has come from paperwork. Or the lack of paperwork. Because this is the first officially IPC-approved competition I’ll have done, it will be the first time I will get an international ranking. But, first, I have to be classified–that is, to be checked that my disability meets the categories for this sport.
As I went through this on a national level a couple of years back, I was caught out by a request for medical records this week. I should probably have expected it, but i didn’t. And, I don’t have my medical records. Who does? It’s just not something you have a copy of, in the UK, unless something’s gone horribly wrong. I’ve got a copy of an x-ray or two, just because the radiographers were really nice, and agreed that they were interesting, and, oh, why not, here you go, etc.
But the IPC wanted official written records, with the evidence of why I have so little muscle power in my right leg.
No records = no classification = no ranking = no qualification.
Yikes.**
Oh, there’s a process for getting medical records in the UK. There are standard release forms, and everything. And that process takes between three and seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS. Seven. And everyone I needed to talk to had gone home*.
Cue: one horrible sleepless night of stress.
Next day, after a lot of phone calls, the generous help of BWL, and some huge acts of kindness and photocopying by the lawyers at the Infirmary we turned the 40 day process into a 23 hour miracle. I got the notes, bwl got images of the notes, and IPC got the uploads. I am amazed, and so very grateful that this happened. And still more than a little stunned that this didn’t derail everything.
Now I’m just waiting to find out if the IPC is happy to accept the paperwork….
*except Matt. Who talked me out of full headless chicken mode and back into someone who gets things done.
**This was a lot more sweary than “yikes” at the time. A lot. Of course.