Bend at the Knee

A few days ago, I had an unusual experience, one that I have never had before. Unfortunately, in addition to being out of the ordinary, it also proved to be both unexpected and extremely painful. I dislocated my left knee - wait for it - while I was dancing. I've dislocated my right shoulder several times before, so that would have come as no surprise to me, but to have my knee suddenly wrench itself apart like it's never done before and leave me motionless on the ground - fucking uncool. Luckily, I was surrounded by perceptive, helpful people who scooped me up and loaded me into someone's car with the intent of taking me to the hospital. While I was sitting in the car, taking a minute to catch my breath, my knee relocated itself. I thought, "cool, now I don't have to go to the emergency room!" Somehow (possibly through the aid of alcohol) I managed to hobble around on it just fine for the rest of the evening.

The next morning (Wednesday), I woke up in a considerable amount of pain. I started putting ice on my knee, taking painkillers, but nothing really seemed to be working. I was afraid to stand, even on one leg, because both of my knees felt so insecure. My right knee felt weak and my left knee, the dislocated one, felt, well...slippery. I was terrified it was going to dislocate again. That day I tried to make it out of the house, to go to a show, to prove to myself that I felt okay, but ultimately I'm glad I didn't go - I think I would be much worse off for it now. Today, thanks to three days of rest, a borrowed knee brace, and a borrowed walking stick, I am feeling stronger and in better spirits. I got up and was able to shower and clean my room today with no difficulties. I still have a couple more days before I have to go back to work, and I plan to continue relaxing and healing while I can.

This is the short of the story, and though it may not seem like a particularly horrible experience to some (and indeed, it ranks pretty low on the scale of traumatizing injuries), for me it has brought with it the memory of a similar, much longer story. Though this memory grows older every year it does not grow any less dim, and try as I might to lock it into a tiny room at the back of my mind, it will not stay there.

Many of my Austin friends may not know that when I was 17 (around 2006 or so), I was diagnosed with melanoma, or skin cancer. A few months prior to the diagnosis, I had gone to the doctor to have a weird bump on my right hand examined. The doctor assured me that it was probably nothing, but that she would remove it. She removed it at the base, but a few weeks later, it grew back. This time, I was anesthetized and taken into surgery, where someone dug the deep roots of this weird alien thing out of my hand. As things progressed after that first surgery, it became apparent that what I had been told was "nothing" was, in fact, a cause for concern. Shortly thereafter, a second surgery, to remove two lymph nodes near the site and examine them for melanoma cells. Confirmed: melanoma was hanging out in my sentinel node. Then, a third surgery, to remove all of the lymph nodes in that area, in case there was more that they'd missed. It appeared that they didn't. They'd gotten it all. "Great!" I thought, "at least this is behind me now."

After I had healed from my third surgery, I was called into the oncology ward of the local children's hospital - as I was under 18, this was where I could go that my insurance would cover costs, though I was much older than most of the children there. I remember sitting in the waiting room, plastic toys all over the floor, coloring books on the walls, Dora the Explorer blaring from the TVs. I remember the pale, skinny children there, all wearing warm winter clothes despite the season and soft knitted hats over their little bald heads. That hospital will haunt my dreams forever. It was there that I was diagnosed with melanoma and moved onto an immunotherapy treatment called Interferon, there that I spent 5 days a week for a month receiving these staggeringly potent treatments, there that I felt like a heroin addict trapped in purgatory, trapped in a cold echoing room as I faded away, surrounded by children too cheerful to understand that they were dying, surrounded by nurses and doctors who were too friendly, too sympathetic; who acted as though nothing that happened there were out of the ordinary, like everybody had to deal with this kind of thing every day. Needless to say, it disturbed me.

The Interferon made me feel horrible, like I had the flu all the time, and the Benadryl I took to counter-act the nausea it also caused made me even more exhausted and delirious. I did a lot of sleeping, and when I wasn't sleeping I was only awake because I was in too much pain to sleep. If someone had offered me a pill to knock me out for that entire month of my life, I don't think I would have refused. I was 17, a senior in high school, and I was, effectively, bedridden. I can't remember how much school I missed but it must have been a massive amount. I'm amazed I even graduated. Those were extremely dark days for myself and my family, physically and emotionally trying, financially frustrating, and ultimately, uncertain.

What has been ringing in my ears the most these last few days as I've been laid up at home is the horrible familiar feeling of helplessness. No matter who you are, when you cannot take care of yourself, cannot even stand up to get a glass of water without causing yourself immense pain, it fucking sucks. To lie there on the couch and watch your friends come and go, riding bikes and swimming and drinking beer and walking around, to see that life continues with or without you, can be immensely depressing. I read somewhere recently that an alarmingly high percentage of people are terrified of being a burden to others - that is, being too sick, weak, old, etc. to function on their own. I wonder who all of these people are - have they, themselves, experienced this and fear that history may repeat itself? Or is the thought of being helpless simply so appalling to those who have never lived it that they would never wish it on their worst enemies?

This is something that I have grappled with throughout my life, and it took the aforementioned incident to humble me into realizing that, yes - I was really sick. I was in a lot of pain. I could not take care of myself and I needed help. My mother was an angel, always patient, loving, and helpful, and while at first I resisted the idea of someone assisting me with everything from eating to showering, eventually I had to surrender.
As humans, we have long childhoods and adolescences, and during those years we are taught the same thing in a million different ways: how to take care of ourselves. We are taught to be proud, brave, and strong. To accept help, to admit defeat is for the weak. I learned how to accept help. At the time, that lesson was a hard one to be learned, but once I did, I relaxed. I was more clear-headed. I stopped fighting myself and tried to focus on the positive. I like to think that it helped, maybe even just a little. The last few days, however, have been a constant struggle, and I am reminded all over again of how stubborn I can be, and then I remind myself of Seamus, gritting my teeth and digging my heels in, refusing to be moved or swayed. The constant pain in my knee has been a reminder of my limits and especially a reminder of my past. I have had to remember to be patient with myself, to ask for help when I need it, and above all, to rest and restore instead of trying to push through the pain. I've always been of the opposite mindset, maybe because of my history, and am usually determined to get back on my feet as soon as possible.

I'm not entirely certain what kind of conclusion I'm trying to come to here. I've spent the last three days indoors except for buying tuna at the gas station yesterday, so as you can probably imagine, I've been doing a lot of thinking. While I entirely disapprove of the Universe's choice to strangulate my leg doing something I love (dancing and listening to wonderful music), I do think that it's important to learn what we can from such incidents, and I will say that I'm extremely grateful this injury isn't worse - from what I've read, it could have been much more serious. I've skated by with some close calls before and I doubt that this will be my last. Despite all of this, I consider this week to be a really good one overall - everything that happened before that awful moment was beautiful and magical. Looking forward to more of that once I can move around outside more. Cheers for now, lovely creatures, if any of you are out there.