Crutch rage, again

I am again on crutches. I have again twisted my right knee. This time, it seems, I've torn (again) TWO -- not just one! -- ligaments. I am again in pain, and again looking forward to an MRI and then probably surgery and definitely lots of physical therapy and rehabilitation. It feels like I just finished my last PT rehab. I do not want to jump around in circles, or walk backwards, or climb a single stair endlessly, or do anything with an exercise ball, ever again. Yet here I am, again damaged.

And again, I find that I can redirect my despair at being painfully hobbled into a rage against the machine. The mechanical machine. The crutches. This time, I have much better upper-body muscle strength going into the crutch period. Be warned: if you cross my path while I am crutching, I will strike you down with righteous fury. With my metal crutches. Leaving you, twisted and broken, on the sidewalk. I will not feel bad about it, because you probably don't exercise and weren't using your knee ligaments. By my reckoning, that makes us even.


This post's theme mantra: "There is not now, nor has there ever been, a well in my cellar." From here. Many thanks to A., who probably prevented me from killing bystanders on my crutchful way home today.