My Knee: A History You Never Wanted to Read About

Seems like every person has a few bodily injuries they like to complain about—or at least pull out and tell stories about to people who really don't care and become less and less interested as the tale goes on. If you are likely to be one of those disinterested people then you may not be interested in the history of my knee, although I (like all those other inconsiderate, self-absorbed people you hear these stories from) will continue on in telling my story anyway.

The tragic tale of how I injured my leg begins when I was three—it is distressing because no three year old should be hurt and in pain, and less appalling because how I managed to maim myself was due to my tripping over a garden hose.  If there is not a fantastic story to go along with an injury, the injury becomes less and less interesting.

People only care if you're injury is entertaining . . . So I will try not to bore you with uninteresting back story.

The real story all began on a Friday afternoon.  I went to work, sat at a desk for long, music-marinated hours, drove home, and began cooking dinner at my apartment.  As I was standing around cooking potatoes, or green beans, or whatever it is I desired to cook that evening, my leg started to feel strange.  At first I ignored it—because this is what I do.  I have a working theory in my mind that if I pretend I am not hurt, then I am not.  I think this theory could probably be likened unto the ostrich theory—if they can't see the predator (because their head is stuck in the sand) then the predator can't see them (with their body sticking awkwardly out of the sand in plain view, just waiting to be eaten.)  You'd think after enough failures of this theory I would realize it should not continue on in its progression to become a law.  However, I am a slow learner.


During the evening my leg continued to swell, it got bigger and bigger until it was roughly the size of two and a half of my other knee—which is not optimal.

What did I do about this?  

Ignore it—the swelling will magically go away and the defined limp will fade into memory.

I have another confession to make before I continue on with my story.  Not only am I a firm believer in the Ostrich Theory, but I am also willfully independent.  And really the last thing the world needs is an invalid who refuses to admit that they are hurt, and then to top that off refuses any help anyone tries to offer them.  Have you ever tried to open a heavy glass door for yourself while on crutches, and then tried to get out of the door with those crutches?  —Let me just tell you, it is harder than it looks, BUT it is possible.  This I know.

How about beating off the person who is trying to open the door for you with your crutches while trying to open the door and get out?  —Just food for thought.

I spent my Saturday on crutches because I decided it was the weekend and my predicament was not urgent enough to warrant going to the emergency room or urgent care.  However, I refused to be inhibited by a swollen knee.  I stubbornly crutched through a grocery store and an art museum with two of my friends—both of whom were very kind and considerate of me during the trip.

(Cartoon:
 Person 1: Be nice to her, she now has arm extentions, so she can beat you up.
Ashley: yah, but she'd have to catch me first.)


To top my day off I decided to spend my Saturday night discussing different stories I could make up about how I got my injury—because telling people that I didn't even know why my knee was swollen was BEYOND lameness.  My stories included things like being attacked while hunting raptors, having my leg break through a layer of ice while in Alaska hunting polar bears, and falling down five flights of cement stairs and then finding five dollars at the bottom (because every story you tell is better if you find five dollars at the end of it).

In the end I decided to make up brilliant stories for people on the fly and didn't even use any of my cleverly planned out tales of disaster and grief!

I'm not completely sure how this epic tale of doom ends as I am still currently lame and on crutches. —If I continue on in my predicament one of my friends has offered to amputate the offending limb, although I have not been so desperate as to take them up on this offer yet. For now I will simply continue on as dauntlessly as possible through my life as (what Ashley endearingly calls me) a gimp.

(Cartoon:
Brother: Laura, you know what you look like? A talented ape.)