I find myself talking a lot about my knees. You see, my knees are not as old as I am, I parted ways with my old knees at the age of 26.
Currently, the average age of a patient who gets knee replacement surgery in the United States is around 65 years old. Generally, surgeons consider anyone under age 50 to be young for knee replacement.
I was young. I knew it, my doctor knew it and my surgeon knew it. But there I was, at 26, becoming one of the world’s youngest full, simultaneous bi-lateral knee recipients.
So what got me to that point…
About six months prior, my RA took a turn for the worse, and not just a nice little bend in the road, it was more like the engines stalling on an airplane, and I, the pilot, was left free-falling without the resources to avoid the crash.
Both of my knees had given out. I was unable to work, unable to walk, and most tragically, unable to ride. I found myself, this girl that wanted to be able to see and do everything all at once, to revel in the world around her, bound to her full sized bed or confined to a wheelchair. I found that in spite of my pride and independence, I was utterly reliant on those around me. My rheumatologist at that time was doing little more than pumping me full of prednisone and failing to take x-rays, so I sought treatment elsewhere.
After a few visits, four cortisone injections and a full set of x-rays, my new rheumatologist sent me to an orthopaedic specialist to discuss knee replacements. The orthopedist took a single look at my films, turned to me and asked when was the last time I was able to stand and walk. I informed him that I could in fact still walk, although very uncomfortably and only short distances. The fact that I was able to stand, let alone walk unassisted left him stunned. All of the cartilage in both knees was completely gone, and the bones that had been grinding on one another had eroded away . I needed knee replacements, and they needed to be simultaneous.
When I was a child, I’m sure that I put some miles on them, crawling around, testing them, learning how to walk. Later, it was hopscotch, skip-it and jump rope. Tree climbing and bike riding. Hiking and swimming, my knees and I did it all and made it through life with only a few scrapes and bruises between us.
At four years old I found horses, my passion in life, and my knees were right there with me. Supporting me as I learned how to ride and how to jump. Picking me up when I lost contact with my saddle, and made contact with the ground. My knees and I were a team.
Then something happened. We started to grow apart. At first it was little things, like running and dancing. Then, my knees no longer wanted to take the impact that came with high level equestrian jumping competition. After a while,they resisted even small tasks such as walking, standing and climbing stairs. They had completely forsaken me, leaving me to spend my days in bed or experiencing life outside of my apartment, from a wheelchair, looking up at my world around me. Looking up at a world that I was so used to surveying from the back of a horse, or the limb of a tree. My knees and I had reached a cross road.
It was an easy decision. The decision to replace my old knees with new ones. I feel it was like the decision a major league coach makes when he pulls from the bull pen. He knows the man standing on that mound is done and worn out, even injured, but the game still needs to be won. So he brings in the relief pitcher, and with this new, refreshed pitcher, the promise of the chance to win the game.
I walked a total of 15 steps the evening after my surgery. Those may quite possibly have been the 15 most difficult, but important steps that I have ever taken. Those were my first 15 steps toward a new, and promising future. As I collapsed back into my chair, I cried. I cried tears forged from pain and from relief. I was going to be able to do this, and from that moment on I knew it was only going to become easier.
Which it did. Within three days, with the help of a walker I was walking to and from therapy. Gradually, my dependence on the walker diminished as my strength and balance came back. Three weeks after my surgery date I was rising and walking unassisted, that is two months earlier than my surgeon and therapists predicted. I often get asked the question how. Attitude.
Attitude truly is everything. I was never a victim and therefore, never acted like one. I didn’t feel sorry for myself and wasn’t looking for pity.
I wanted this. I needed this.
I knew no matter how difficult it was, or what my pain level reached, I had lived through worse, and made it, just as would this time. I knew that those times that I had lived through before, I didn’t have an answer. I knew I was in pain and every medication and treatment I had tried failed me. I also knew, my pain was getting worse. This time it was different. This time I was getting better, and every time something was difficult I knew it was going to get easier. Every time I pushed through, it wasn’t going to be in vain. I was going to get through this and become stronger. I was going to be able to return to a life that wasn’t wheelchair accessible only.
I would do it all again. Sometimes I joke that they feel like they are getting a tad rusty, but I have definitely used them during the last decade. I felt the wind hit my face and my heart skip as I galloped my horse. I have shimmed up mountains and strolled along beaches. I’ve jumped, danced, swam, climbed, fallen, loved, hiked, traveled, tripped and so much more with these knees.
I have lived and I have miles to go.
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