I Know I Sound Like a Broken Record

Sarah has her hand on one of my knees and Laura has her hand on the other. We’re all out on my porch—a beautiful fall day—and I’ve just fed them brunch. They hiked this morning and wanted to know why I couldn’t join them.

“You ready?” I say.

They nod.

I bend my knees about 20 degrees and, like synchronized swimmers, they each zip their hands away from my kneecaps, swinging their arms in full arcs and back to the safety of their own bodies. Their mouths drop in tandem, then that same, ugly gasp: “Ooooh-ack-ugh.”

Call it crepitus. Call it patellofemural syndrome. Call it runner’s knee, call it a lack of cartilage, call it crunching, call it wrong. It’s real. Inside my body. Keeping me from exercising now for 7 consecutive days and 7 more to go (bare minimum). My body is a knot from sitting and writing and not having any release on the trails or in the dojo. Each knee, since Dr. Superman’s injections, is swollen more than it has been in the 8 months I’ve been in pain. And the left knee, in particular, has this poochy-pouch thing going on where the needle went in last week.

And that was supposed to help?

Seriously, I’m no wimp (I had a series of these injections in my feet years ago), but I’m having a hard time believing in the miracles of this procedure as each day goes by and I experience less and less relief and the thought of even normal daily movements (i.e. GOING ON A WALK) seems further away.

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