Amanda Cordero

Jackie Burr, Instructor

English 1010

March 10, 2015                                                                                                                                 

16 Going On 70

            At just the young age of sixteen, I unknowingly began my premature journey of becoming an achey-jointed old woman. I was just your typical teenage girl on a club soccer team when basically everything went into shambles, well, my knee and soccer career that is. I can still feel the giving away of my leg as my opponent abruptly bumps her knee straight into mine, causing an unnatural bend of my knee. Obviously, I was unable to see it from an outside point-of-view, but I like to imagine it bending backwards much like a flamingo. It felt as if time had stopped and I was merely in a slow-motion daze as I gradually fell to the grass beneath my cleats.

            “My ACL,” I gasped just seconds after abruptly hitting the ground, “It’s my ACL”. It was one of those gut feelings you get when you just know, you don’t know how or why, you just know that something has happened.

            “Don’t stand up,” advised the old withered-skin referee with the sun faded jersey and perfectly intact soccer cleats. I guess he had taken my self-diagnosed knee seriously, given that the refs had been ignoring everyone who clumsily tumbled all game long. “Your coach is coming”.

            Most people suffer an injury at least once in their lifetime, and they all have something to learn from them. For example, burning themselves and learning not to touch a stove top, or ignorantly jumping off a high table and finding out “That really hurt my leg, I probably shouldn’t jump from high things anymore”. After several long and torturous months, I learned something on a much deeper level than that. I was taught to appreciate even the most seemingly insignificant matters in life. I couldn’t even straighten my leg for over year, so as you can imagine, I’m grateful for the simplest motions I'm now able to perform. Its odd how certain mishaps in one’s life can alter their way of thinking and help them grow as a being, as it did to me.

            I have always been a sucker for what are commonly referred to as “sob stories”. Like most, I was inspired by people who overcame physical challenges; someone learning to walk again after a tragic car accident, or shining above others regardless of physical disadvantages they were unavoidably born with. We can all agree that stories like these never fail to make the hair on our arms stand up, sending those exhilarating shivers down our ignorant spines, but what about the simple things?

            “Now, make sure you put absolutely zero weight on that left leg until we give you the clearance. Your knee cannot handle it, and I can guarantee you spot back in my operating room if you try to walk on it too soon,” My doctor began explaining to me the importance of not testing my newly constructed joint’s abilities, as if the pain wasn’t stopping me from walking on it to begin with. “Im going to give you a heads up, even if it’s not something you want to hear. Therapy is painful. It will take a few months of rehab before you will start feeling like yourself, so you need to understand your body’s limitations and know when to rest.”

            “How long will I be on crutches?” I ask, frightened.

            “As long as it takes for you to build up strength. We will slowly wean you off of them for the next few weeks. Then, we can ease you into learning to walk without a limp.”

            The moment the doctor said “learning to walk without a limp” was the first real moment I had hoped I was only dreaming. It was the moment of realization that my injury was no longer just an injury, but a new part of my daily life. I hadn’t thought much of it before the operation. Being the NFL and NBA fan that I am, I had seen—or at least heard of—my fair share of knee injuries. Never seeming like a big deal, I wasn’t too worried. Even when Dr. Traewick, my bald orthopedic surgeon, explained to me the complicated process of the extensive surgery I was about to undergo, I never found myself feeling scared.

            Most Anterior Cruciate Ligament tears aren’t as bad as mine was. Usually, they are repairable. That’s when they are called “ACL repairs”. Mine was referred to as an “ACL reconstruction because there wasn’t anything inside left to repair. The process was harsh. They surgically removed a 4-inch section of my Hamstring tendon from the back of my bruised knee and braided it with a cadaver ligament. Yes, a cadaver; a long-lived ligament removed from a deceased guy’s leg. Might I just add, the thought of it wasn't very comforting. Prior to inserting my newly constructed ligament, two holes were drilled into the lower end of my femur, and two more holes were drilled into the top of my tibia. The fancily braided tissues were then weaved and pinned into these caves that were roughly created in my delicate bones.

            Times were tough. Nothing was harder than simply trying to get up to go to the bathroom. There was what felt like a fifty pound brace on my leg at the time. From the base of my hip to the top of my ankle, was a bionic-looking leg brace locked at full extension, strapped on over layers upon layers of bandages. I remember frantically yelling at my heartbroken parents who were so desperately trying to help me, as they only seemed to make matters worse at the time. So I thought anyway.

            “Stop! Stop!” I yelled at my mom as she attempted to help me stand up on my crutches after sitting like a lump on a log for hours on end. The weight of my brace covered bandages felt like a thousand bricks were pulling down on me, ripping my knee cap and lower leg right off my thigh bone. The pain was unbearable, but regrettably inevitable. My caring mother, sobbing and sympathetic, gathered all the strength in her body to carry my helpless leg and I to the bathroom and back to the couch again, which at the time seemed like the one spot I would thrive at for the rest of my life.

            Pain moves you, yet pain immobilizes you. In order to feel bliss and comfort at it’s maximum, you must first understand the true feeling of absolute agony. First, pain kept me still. Then, it moved me. I have never grown so much as a person, yet been so frightened of moving forward at the same time. Appreciation is what I have gained for not only the comfortable times in life, but the ordinarily capable times in life. I went 6 full months of daily struggles of the inability to straighten my leg fully; I walked with a limp, went to bed with a rolled up towel under my knee for comfort in hopes of getting at least a couple hours worth of sleep for the night, and went through excruciating manipulations of scar tissue build up in my knee several days a week. Not once did I ever think my main goal would be to simply lay my leg flat on the ground without the jolting pain of having to manually shoved my knee flat. Ever. But once that became the reality of my life, something inside me awakened.

            “My scars are so embarrassing,” I complain to my mom. “I need a longer dress”.

            “They’re hardly noticeable. I would never even know if I were a stranger. You're beautiful.” She reassuringly replied. Dress shopping for school dances has had a surprisingly big impact on me. The scars left behind seem to be more emotional than physical—although I wouldn't quite say the eight little purple marks on my leg are attractive—which was just another insecurity I felt when my own body was deceiving me.

            The beauty in life is surprisingly found in the most hideous of places. As much as I wish I could say “Nothing but good has come of this”, I cant.  I still find myself holding back from doing things I want to, because of fear. The most inspiring of stories are the ones that end in the success of the strong-willed victim who didn’t let anything hold them back, and continued with what they love. But for me, that’s not the case. I quit soccer. I haven’t played since. What’s stopping me from living life is the haunting thought of having to go through that torture again. Unfortunately, I have had a second surgery since my reconstruction, and I’m not willing to risk a third. It’s not something I boast about, but it’s a personal choice and the honest reality of an unforgettable injury. To this day I continue to struggle with pain and stiffness. Always joking, I claim I could grow up to be a weatherman, because my seventeen year old knee instantly turns seventy years old when the weather changes. Who needs a trusted weather app on their technologically advanced smart phone when they have my worn out leg and I to predict the future forecast, right?