Remember that show? John Gage and Roy something-something? I used to love that show, it now reminds me of the babysitter’s near my school in North Portland.
Have you ever torn your kneecap outta place so hard that it looked like a piece of fruit hanging on the side of your leg? It’s a snapping, disgusting pain, one that turns a stomach and makes grown men weep.
Instinctively, I grabbed it and mashed it back into place as my horrified eyes gaped on.
It’s like Cane’s Anonymous in here, this clinic is teeming with geriatrics and septuagenarians, I feel like a fresh, newly conceived embryo limping into this waiting room, a callow little baby with a walking stick. Standing in line behind bright white sneakers and the stale air of deathbeds, khakis hiked just below big blu-blockers, my god, I can feel the Metamucil and Centrum flowing through their slow, tepid, trembling blood.
My knee has been blown out for nearly 4 weeks, my home incarceration is tightening its fingers around me and this depression from immobility knows no bounds. Medicated and sofa ridden, this body is shriveling up like a skinny sack of raisins. Where are any of my friends?
The sweet and pure science of sports medicine and therapy is one I will subscribe to for the rest of my life because this injury has given me insight to the future and how visible signs of aging are found in your shoes, pants, diet and exercise.