First, I would like to start by apologizing for over six months of inactivity. I even forgot to post something dramatic and narcissistic for my birthday--
ANYWAY, I do plan to make amends, particularly after a quite active summer. Therefore, allow me to tell you, dear reader (actually, first off--how are you? It's been ages, hope you're well, love ya, etc.), about the very surreal thing that I did about six weeks ago.
You're probably thinking: what did she do, that daredevil? If so, well, thank you for calling me a daredevil, and also, yes, be intrigued. It was a really good thing that I did and I do not regret it.
I did do it, reader. I did...
I HAD KNEE SURGERY YA'LL!!!
I suppose I have some explaining to do. For starters, in case you have not known me your entire life (shout-out to my mom, dad, grandpa, and my tias who read this), you might not know that I completely screwed up my knee when I was 16-years-old. I was a natural athlete since I was little, so playing sports always came naturally to me. I was a skilled footballer by the time I got to high school, and 2004 was going to be my year: first year playing in the Girls Varsity team (as a sophomore). Of course, I had no idea at the time that the difficulty and breathlessness I had while running was due to a BIG ASS TUMOR THAT I HAD IN MY BELLY (for which I did have surgery, so worry not. We even named my tumor and made pregnant jokes about it, so it's totally fine).
Anyway, back to the knee business. I was 16, talented AF, and a freaking douchebag (honestly, teenage athletes who do not compete at a professional level are big old jerks, for the most part. We are full of ourselves, feel we're better than everyone, are very attractive). So, of course, I had to have my dreams of becoming an Olympian be shattered by a career-ending injury during practice, three days before the season started. I was careless and decided to go to practice wearing tennis shoes instead of cleats. It had been raining the night before, and the field was soft. I was running after a long pass, and once I reached the ball and tried to shoot it into the box, my support foot (the left) slipped inward. I heard a loud pop and felt something snap inside my knee. I fell on the ground, face first, and started wailing. I tried opening my eyes but all I could see was flashes of white light in a black background.
Long story short, we didn't have insurance, so I didn't go to the doctor. My dad basically said it was just a matter of letting it rest a couple weeks, so I did. Then tried to play again, with the same outcome. And again. And again.
I am 31 years old. I have carried this broken knee for fifteen years now, and let me tell you, it has been nothing short of an ordeal. I have lived my entire life limited as to the things I can do physically: no running, no team sports, no high-impact exercise, no extreme activities (skydiving, rock climbing)... not even having the pleasure of dancing Latin music as it ought to be danced--with so many twists and turns that you'd get dizzy. Not to mention, always having the possibility of dislocating your knee at the simplest sudden lateral move, a throbbing pain every time it's cold and rainy, stiffness to the point of complete immobility.
So, you must be thinking... why did I wait so long? Well, mostly because I had no money/insurance for the majority of that time. But also out of fear. I've heard horror stories from people that had the surgery and ended up just as messed up as before, or--even worse--had to have multiple surgeries.
However, everything changed at the beginning of this year. At a friend's wedding, I completely busted my leg, and I mean COMPLETELY. It felt like the lower part of my leg was only attached to the upper part by skin. My patella got completely out of it's socket, and my leg was alarmingly swollen. I spent five days bed-ridden after that, literally crying my eyes out in my apartment, wondering if I should just call an ambulance (which I did not do because, in the words of my mom, "what's the point? They'll give you Advil and charge you five thousand dollars..."). I spent 3 months having to wear a knee brace and use a cane because I felt my leg would snap in half at any moment.
It seemed pretty apparent that I had no choice. I needed to brave it. If the surgery didn't work, at least I would know I had done what I could to be better. But if it did work... oh, reader... if it did work, it would be the first time I would be whole again in 15 years (physically speaking).
So I contacted a physician, I booked an appointment, I nodded when I heard him say "we can do the procedure on Monday". By the time it dawn on me, I was already in the operating room, highly drugged, laughing my butt off.
Do not worry, reader. I will post an entry just about all the crazy and hilarious and embarrassing things that happened during my hospital stay. But for now, let me focus on the seriousness. It was gruesome (especially hearing the sounds of the drill), it was grueling, it was hella painful. It was also super boring, being on bed-rest for two weeks. Yeah, the whole thing really sucked.
But, surprisingly enough, despite the pain and the tears and the boredom, I felt... joy. Joy of knowing that perhaps I had a shot at being healthy again, a shot at being an athlete again, a shot at being able to go to a party, put on some nice shoes, and dance... my butt... off. I felt so excited to just know that I could have a more normal life. Ya'll... I do not think I can emphasize this enough... THE PROSPECT OF BEING ABLE TO DO MORE THINGS IS SO EXCITING.
With that mindset, I've started doing physical therapy and killing it like a boss. I am driven and confident and super into it, even though it means being a gym bro and making my knee hurt and swell. It's gonna be okay, I can feel it in my heart. I am going to be so. freaking. okay.
