I hate the number four.
Four.
Four years ago I stepped in a hole in my backyard. My right knee locked and the journey began.
Four.
Four knee surgeries between January 2013 and February 2016.
Four.
Four years since I went to physical therapy for something other than my left knee.
Four.
Four months since I stepped foot into my physical therapy office for my most recent bout of PT. I still go, every Wednesday.
Four.
Four weeks since I had to march in place, balance on one leg and walk while being watched by my physical therapist, the head physical therapist, a physical therapy assistant and two physical therapy aides.
Four.
Four weeks since I was taped from my right ankle, up and around my leg (extra tape on the knee), over my hip and across my back to my left shoulder. Getting that taping done was a two person job. Incidentally, this was one of the four different taping techniques we’ve tried so far.
Four.
Four hours I spent crying on my bed last week because I just snapped. After four years of pretty constant knee pain wouldn’t you snap too? You can only force a smile for so long.
Four.
Without a doubt my least favourite number.
I know I’m lucky. I have a surgeon and physical therapist working their tails off, doing everything they can to make my knee better. I have friends and family that support me; let me cry, take me on adventures, send sweet texts, call just to see how I’m doing, send me flowers.
But four years is a long time. I mean, it’s just a knee. A knee shouldn’t cause this many problems.
When I snapped last week I couldn’t help it. It was like four years of pain and frustration that I had let build up that needed to be let out. I tend to put a smile on my face and go about my day. No one like to see people sad, frustrated or angry.
I’ve started, stopped, deleted and re-typed this post four times now.
Four.
A number I need to start to make peace with.
