Tearing My ACL…Like a Boss

 

Paramedic standing over me while I cried like a bitch. Just kidding, they were the manliest of tears. Photo credit: asshole teammate of mine. Not sure who. Can’t even see my face in this picture. I should probably be grateful?

So I was playing soccer almost two months ago when I went in for a tackle and ended up in a heap on the floor. I over-extended my leg, hoping to get the ball, but what I got was a 20? minute wait for the ambulance to arrive. I remember one asshole on the other team asked whether I could be moved so the game could continue. This wasn’t a fake “soccer injury”/dive, but I wasn’t in any shape to argue with him. Still, what an asshole. The paramedics eventually came and carried me off on a stretcher, but I still like to think that I left like a boss. I mean, how else could I leave?

The paramedic kept asking me how bad the pain was, based on the amazingly accurate and infallible 1-10 scale. I always get nervous answering this question, maybe cause I don’t want to seem like a pussy? Thanks, society. I know, I know, it’s stupid. I’m always the one telling my friends how stupid it is to hold onto these notions of what’s manly and what’s not, especially when it comes to your health. Another reason is that giving in to the pain makes it hurt even more, so I try not to — mind over matter.

As we close on the hospital, I tell the paramedic that my pain is at a 5 now. What does a 5 mean? Hell if I know. Of course, I’m lying on a stretcher with an icepack on my knee, so yea, the pain isn’t bad at all. I barely feel a thing. The paramedics tell me I’m probably fine, and probably just twisted my knee. How to not get sued 101 is clearly taught at paramedic school.

Once we arrive at the hospital, it’s the infamous waiting game. Hours pass, and I can see my brother getting bored. We play on the same team together — his team, in fact — and he came in the ambulance with me. A teammate and family friend of ours arrive and he helps alleviate some of the boredom my brother is feeling. I fall asleep due to the wait, boredom, and pain.

I wake up to a tap on my shoulder, and the doctor introduces himself. He asks some perfunctory questions and sends me for an x-ray to make sure nothing is broken. A nurse comes and wheels me away on a wheelchair. I feel like Professor X, but without the superpowers, so just a broken shell of a man — at least I still have my hair. The nurse asks me if I’m ready, and I tell her about how I slept with my phone in my hand, and it’s now gone missing. “That’s weird,” she said, “Are you sure you didn’t leave it somewhere, like inside your jacket?” I don’t think she cares that much. Waking up without my phone sends me into panic mode. How would I reach my brother if I needed him? What if he can’t find me? I get wheeled towards the x-ray machine, and I try not to panic.

The x-ray comes back fine, and the doctor sends me home. He didn’t send me to get an MRI, but it’s fine, he’s a doctor, he knows what he’s doing. He’s a busy man with other, more pressing patients to care for. It takes two to three weeks of bedrest for me to recover enough to leave the house on crutches. I go and see my family doctor and he sends me for an MRI, something the doctor at the ER should’ve done, he says. I get pissed at myself for having so much faith in that doctor. My family doctor says I probably partially tore my MCL, but it should heal by itself. The wait for the MRI: a month. Fast forward, and my MRI shows that I fully tore my ACL, partially tore my MCL, sprained my LCL, bilateral meniscal tears and other things like muscle tears. My family doctor is surprised at the damage and asks how I hurt myself again. ACL reconstruction surgery has to be done if I ever want to play sports again, and at the age of 26, the decision is easy. Note to self: always get tests instead of relying on doctor diagnosis.

My friends tell me how I should get the surgery, but I should stay away from sports afterwards, and maybe join them in the gym (where the risk of injury is lower?). I’ve always hated the gym. I can’t motivate myself to work out, especially indoors. I’m the type of idiot who has to chase after a ball to fool myself into running…and even then, I don’t run that much. I’ve gained a few pounds since my injury. Which is to say, I’m practically snorlax in human form.

The good news: my ACL reconstruction surgery was supposed to be in May, but someone cancelled, and my surgery is now TOMORROW! The question of whether I should or shouldn’t play will have to wait until after surgery. I’m scared; not for the surgery, but for the rehab after. I’ve seen how hard rehab is first hand through my brother. He also tore his ACL before (and broke his ankle shortly after recovering from said ACL surgery), and he’s playing soccer again. The same doctor will fix me up tomorrow. I joked about how we’re making it a family tradition to visit him for ACL reconstruction surgery, and he laughed, perhaps unsure of how else to respond.

P.S. Arsenal won today. I am pleased. I find myself watching soccer and playing more FIFA (video game) due to my injury. You always want what you can’t have, I guess.