Thursday, February 22, 2007

On One Good Knee


The knee has been a source of nuisance since junior year of college. But as any pretentious athlete (give me the liberty to refer to myself as such) would tell you, we are not one to admit our aches and bruises to our peers. Doing so would be a sign of weakness – an admittance of a lack of ‘testicular fortitude’. And so, I quickly dismissed all the worried requests. I didn’t have to adhere to their cries of concern, and for the longest time, I didn’t.

A few years have passed and the pain still remains, although it doesn’t pop up (no pun intended) that often. Only after participating in any strenuous, physical activity does it begin to become a source of discomfort. If that was the case, I figured it was something that I could live with.

But after hearing from a colleague of his experience with a similar discomfort and his trivial nonchalance in addressing it, which eventually led to him tearing the anterior cruciate ligament of his right knee, my indifference turned into growing concern. The warning signs surrounding his injury were eerily similar to what I was experiencing.

So I finally conceded. I decided to have it checked.

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The doctor’s office was cramped beyond despair. You could barely open the door without banging on one of the metal chairs; the secretary’s wooden desk occupied about half of the office space, and to make it worse, the smell inside reeked of expired powdered milk. Not really the most ideal place to know about the extent of your injured knee.

But there I was, waiting for my number to be called. A few days ago, I had undergone an MRI scan and the orthopedic doctor advised me to bring in the diagnosis as soon as I had them. So, with the results in my hand, I waited patiently for the dear doctor to save me from the loathsome stench of the reception area. After a few agonizing minutes, he finally opens the door to his office, which to my dismay, smelled worse than the aforementioned reception area.

As I sat down anxiously waiting for his diagnosis, doctor took one look at the MRI and said, “You have a partial tear in your ACL.”

To his credit, dear doctor tried soothing my bruised psyche with an attempt at dry humor. Asked about what sports I could still play, he jokingly replied, “You can still play chess.” Lame as it was, I couldn’t help but appreciate the effort.

Although there was a risk, and a big one at that, of aggravating the tear, doctor still said that I could still play basketball provided that I take it easy on my reckless forays to the basket. An easy compromise, I figured. In addition to that, doctor advised me to start wearing a metal brace every time I decide to play ball. No problem on that, too. Considering how the hospital visit began, his rather cautious recommendations were as-good-a-news as I could have possibly hoped for.

Mercifully, the appointment didn’t take up too much time and I was spared from having to take in anymore of that wretched odor. As I left the doctors office, I began contemplating on the circumstances and severity of the injury. A torn ACL, partial or otherwise, is not something to be taken lightly. A traditional tear, if you can even call it that, takes a year to rehab. For someone who has big plans for his future, sitting on my arse for a full year is not my idea of fulfilling my goals.

But something still needs to be done and I’ve come to grips with the reality that there’s no hiding from this type of injury. After all, it only takes one wrong step to tear the ligaments off completely. So one of these days, I shall go into therapy. Three years too late, I know, but I’m just glad I know how to deal with it now.

In the meantime, I shall continue playing my sports, albeit more reservedly. I’ll play fewer games now, and I’ll try to stay away from excessive contact with my fellow competitors. But I will not stop playing.
For as long as I’m capable of walking, I’ll keep on shooting.