A few weeks ago, I blogged about how I rely on yoga and running for my identity. I lightheartedly mused on how one day I’d like to learn how to find that sense of grounding without needing physical activity, assuming that would be in my distant, heavily-wrinkled future.
Then, after a series of running incidents and a mishap skiing high on the mountain, I (forgive the technical medical language) fucked my knee.
At first it was fine: the swelling went down, I could walk on it, the doctor said it was merely sprained. My inner skeptic decided to go ahead with an MRI, which showed the ACL was actually partially fucked.
The second doctor referred me to a surgeon and his stats appealed: he operates at SportsMed specializing in knee ops, works with pro athletes, makes wine in his free time. We hit it off during our brief consultation, bantering about my work as a translator, skiing and the pitfalls travel insurance (in which I am currently extremely well-versed).
The surgeon revealed that my knee is in fact totally fucked. No cute little arthroscopy, no quick in-and-out to sew my ACL back together. Nope – full reconstruction.
I’ve moved from angry meltdown, to sobbing woe, to sunshiny positivity, on a loop for days. My Dutch travel and health insurance has proven itself spectacularly useless, and I’m stressed about the thousands of dollars this may cost. Not to mention everything I will miss out on – I can make myself sick with sadness at all the things I cannot do.
But I’m working on seeing the positive. The chance to read, and study, and spend time with my amazing family. The fact that I am citizen in two countries where the health care system is fucking awesome. The fact that I went to The Killers concert 3 weeks ago, when my knee was still ok to be danced and jumped on.
And a resilience within, of which I was not previously aware. It’s fierce, and it’s ready for a fight.