I injured my left knee nine months ago. My recovery has not proceeded as planned. I find solace in writing about—and laughing at—the mental frustration and physical comedy of battling an injury whose rehabilitation has gone awry.

Cartoon by the author

September 3: Hotel Recovery

“Rich, are you serious?” Merrill giggles in astonishment. She puts down her luggage and gestures towards the lower half of my body.

I look ridiculous. Ice bags are tethered to my knees. My armpits rest atop crutches. I am wearing anti-embolism socks and a Goldschläger tee-shirt.

This is not my apartment. It is a hotel room that sits just seven blocks from my five-floor walk-up.

“What are you talking about?” I wonder aloud.

The thing is, I injured myself three and a half months ago. No surgery. So how on earth did I end up here on Labor Day weekend?

Last May I twisted my left knee playing squash. Nothing too painful, but I got it checked out anyway: doctor’s examination, MRI, and x-rays were clean. The diagnosis was chondromalacia patella (“runner’s knee”), a fancy and out-dated term for patellofemoral pain. The injury, I was told, should resolve itself with ample rest and diligent physical therapy.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to get better, I got much worse. By the end of my first month of physical therapy (PT), both knees ached. I could not walk more than a few blocks without sharp pains shooting behind and around my kneecaps. To be sure, the doctor did some blood work. After testing negative for Lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and other systemic maladies, my diagnosis was upgraded to “really pissed-off knees.” Thank goodness for clarity!
So I spent the rest of August resting as much as possible, taking Non-steroidal Anti-inflammatory Drugs (NSAIDs), and doing light stretches. Yet the pain kept increasing.

Desperate, I tried all sorts of stuff: stability braces, tracking braces, therapy tape, kinesiology tape, scotch tape, ice bags, ice gel, Smirnoff Ice, ice foam, foam-rolling, As-Seen-On-TV orthotics, motion-controlled shoes, meditation, Gregorian chants, etc. I even took advice from characters on TV, like Dwight from The Office, to heart: “If you clench your buttocks together while walking you can really take the pressure off your knees.” Yeah, not so much for me.

By the beginning of September I was on crutches. At this point, I was seeking third, fourth, and fifth opinions. Luckily, I found a doctor who was able to identify a very inflamed plica (a fold on the surface of the synovium, the richly innervated and viscous fluid that lubricates the joint) in my left knee that was impinged between my patella and femur. Of course the plica might not be my only or primary problem, he speculated, but at least it was a start. Over 90% of these cases don’t require surgery. The doctor suggested that another round of medication, followed by a more conservative and individualized PT program, should get me out of this hole. I agreed to it.

Around the time of my latest diagnosis, I joined something I thought was only reserved for childish anonymous posters (“This video totally sucks 110%!!!!”) and anime-enthusiasts: an internet forum. In the end, this knee pain forum was quite helpful—and disheartening. It turns out that patellofemoral pain is, as one knee surgeon puts it, the “black hole of orthopedics.” Poor understanding yields poor therapies. Surgery is generally not promising, and can cause more problems than it can help.

The literature, though, emphasized rest to a degree I once considered ridiculous. “Analyze and mitigate everything that irritates your knees,” was the basic credo. Analyze everything.
“Fine! Let’s take this to the logical extreme,” I thought. Intensely motivated, I figured if I religiously iced my knees, gobbled NSAIDs, avoided any physical irritants (i.e. stairs, sitting in cars), and floated in a pool (my only painless refuge at the time) I would at least be competent enough to start the sparest of physical therapy in a week. Hence, I decided to stay in a neighborhood hotel with a pool and elevator for Labor Day weekend. A staycation mixed in with a rehabilitative mission! At least that was my rationalization. (Fortunately, I had accumulated enough credit card points to avoid a completely absurd balance. But, yes. It was absurd.)

September 3: Hotel Recovery (cont.)

“I’m so sorry to see you like this, but you look like the calf-implant guy from that MTV True Life episode ‘I Want the Perfect Body,’” Merrill answers. “Remember? After the surgery, he recovered by himself in some motel off the Jersey Turnpike because no one supported his decision to get such an awesome set of calves.”

I am familiar with high-quality reality TV, so I know exactly what she is talking about and chuckle, “I am calf-implant guy. Nice.” I even recite his memorable line, “Now that I got the calves, I am the perfect man.”

Forget the chiseled calves.

I just want to be able to walk to the vending machine at the end of the hall.