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It looks like I'm probably going to need surgery for my knee after all.
Darnit.
I'm tired of being yanked back and forth about this. I know as well as anyone that medicine is inexact and impossible to predict with absolute accuracy, but I've spent the past three months on an emotional rollercoaster as the doctors and physical therapists flip-flop back and forth between diagnoses and prognoses. It's your tendon and it'll go away if you ignore it; it's your meniscus and you need surgery now; it's not your meniscus and it'll stop eventually; it's better; it's worse.
I was so damn hopeful when I started physical therapy. I've gone to every appointment, even though it has wreaked havoc with my schedule. I've done all my exercises, I've listened to all the advice, I've taken enough Advil to kill a horse. And I was so happy when I started getting better - walking without a cane felt like an amazing accomplishment, and for a long time I figured if I could make that much of an improvement, I could heal the rest of the way if I just tried hard enough.
But it hasn't improved at all since then. I don't mean to belittle the progress I've made so far - I can make it through the workday on my feet, and I can bend my knee to 90 degrees. That's all, though. I still can't kneel or crouch, I can't put any sideways pressure on my knee at all, and walking more than a mile leaves me in pain for two days. And it may sound selfish and greedy and demanding, but that's not good enough for me. I don't want that kind of lifestyle. I want to jump and dance again, and I want to be able to walk as far as I need to, instead of having to guess what my body can manage and plan my errands around only going out half that distance.
On top of that, apparently in spite of everything the knee has started backsliding. Today my physical therapist made a particularly ugly face as soon as she tried to palpate the problem, and told me that while she'll work with me for another week or two, that I'm probably wasting my time. I have instructions to go see my doctor within the next couple of weeks, and I'll almost certainly get referred for surgery. Which, of course, means the misery of general anesthesia, the juggling of my schedule trying to find two days off in a row between now and August, and a month or two of recovery before we figure out whether the surgery worked. Which, of course, is not guaranteed.
I'm going to spend the next week doing everything within my power to force this stupid thing to heal, in a last-ditch effort to dodge the knife. I'll still be performing with the Babydolls on Saturday, but other than that I'm keeping off my feet as much as possible. I'll ice it, I'll rest it, I'll say a prayer to every god I can think of and a few extra just in case. I do not, not, not want to be cut open like a pork chop for stuffing, and I do not want things poked inside my knee.
I want a refund on this year.
Darnit.
I'm tired of being yanked back and forth about this. I know as well as anyone that medicine is inexact and impossible to predict with absolute accuracy, but I've spent the past three months on an emotional rollercoaster as the doctors and physical therapists flip-flop back and forth between diagnoses and prognoses. It's your tendon and it'll go away if you ignore it; it's your meniscus and you need surgery now; it's not your meniscus and it'll stop eventually; it's better; it's worse.
I was so damn hopeful when I started physical therapy. I've gone to every appointment, even though it has wreaked havoc with my schedule. I've done all my exercises, I've listened to all the advice, I've taken enough Advil to kill a horse. And I was so happy when I started getting better - walking without a cane felt like an amazing accomplishment, and for a long time I figured if I could make that much of an improvement, I could heal the rest of the way if I just tried hard enough.
But it hasn't improved at all since then. I don't mean to belittle the progress I've made so far - I can make it through the workday on my feet, and I can bend my knee to 90 degrees. That's all, though. I still can't kneel or crouch, I can't put any sideways pressure on my knee at all, and walking more than a mile leaves me in pain for two days. And it may sound selfish and greedy and demanding, but that's not good enough for me. I don't want that kind of lifestyle. I want to jump and dance again, and I want to be able to walk as far as I need to, instead of having to guess what my body can manage and plan my errands around only going out half that distance.
On top of that, apparently in spite of everything the knee has started backsliding. Today my physical therapist made a particularly ugly face as soon as she tried to palpate the problem, and told me that while she'll work with me for another week or two, that I'm probably wasting my time. I have instructions to go see my doctor within the next couple of weeks, and I'll almost certainly get referred for surgery. Which, of course, means the misery of general anesthesia, the juggling of my schedule trying to find two days off in a row between now and August, and a month or two of recovery before we figure out whether the surgery worked. Which, of course, is not guaranteed.
I'm going to spend the next week doing everything within my power to force this stupid thing to heal, in a last-ditch effort to dodge the knife. I'll still be performing with the Babydolls on Saturday, but other than that I'm keeping off my feet as much as possible. I'll ice it, I'll rest it, I'll say a prayer to every god I can think of and a few extra just in case. I do not, not, not want to be cut open like a pork chop for stuffing, and I do not want things poked inside my knee.
I want a refund on this year.
