One Week Post Injury

It’s been a week since I initially hurt my knee, and I can’t say I’ve come to fully accept this shit. I can’t bring myself to accept the fact that holes are going to be drilled in my knee, that I have to crutch around for the next couple weeks after surgery, or that I won’t be able to put on a pair of cleats for months, much less a pair of gloves. My knee hurts, along with my hips and the pad of my left foot since I’m walking unevenly from limping. I feel defeated. It’s embarrassing how bad I feel for myself.

I’ve gotten an enormous amount of support from my friends and teammates within the past week and I’m so grateful for every text and call I’ve received, even from those who have been in my position, but there’s something in me that won’t let me listen to them. At the moment I can’t even abide by my own belief that everything happens for a reason, much less listen to others who are telling me that. I want to trust that belief so badly, but I can’t accept this. I was making a routine save, a usual plant on my left foot and it buckled. It fucking buckled and cracked and popped. It’s never done that before so why now? I broke my hand two years ago and broke my ankle last year so haven’t I served my time? Couldn’t I catch a break just this once? After everything I’ve put into this damn sport, you’d think something better would’ve resulted by now.

I thought this year was it. This year was supposed to be the year that would finally provide me some opportunity. But now I sit here as tears well up in my eyes with nightmares from a week ago. I couldn’t sleep the night it happened because I knew something wasn’t right, but I kept denying my gut feeling, which left me staring at a dark ceiling for three hours. I feel so selfish crying over a stupid ass ligament when there are so many awful things occurring in the rest of the world. Last week, my dad told me about the 12-year-old daughter of one of his coworkers who has a rare autoimmune disease that causes tissue buildup and inflammation in her muscles. She has a life-threatening disease, and I’m crying over a fucking torn ligament that can be fixed and healed. After all, I’m simply one in 200,000 yearly cases of ACL tears in the U.S.

Perspective. I need some of it, yet have absolutely none of it. I know this injury could have been worse, but I struggle to say the words, “I tore my ACL,” to the people I consider closest to me without breaking down. I’ve been told several times over the past week that if anyone can go through this, it’s you. What if I don’t want to? What if I don’t think I can go through this? But that might be the torn ligament talking. So one week post injury, I feel crushed and just sad. No amount of physical pain can trump the emotional roller coaster my family and I have suffered this week. Surgery is next week, so hopefully my use of profanity will apply to my lack of patience rather than my emotional misery.