How Is Your Knee?
How is your knee?
That’s what everyone has been asking me recently.
And I know they mean well.
I really do.
If someone asks about your knee, it means they remembered. It means they thought of you. It means they cared enough to ask a question.
Still, after hearing the same question over and over again, something started feeling off.
Nobody asks how I am.
I feel like I disappeared a little from my own recovery story.
The knee became the center of it.
I became the person carrying him around.
“How is your knee?”
“He is doing well,” I say.
Improving as expected. Getting stronger. More flexible. More extendable.
Physiotherapy is working.
Progress is happening.
Everything looks positive.
And while he keeps getting better, I keep getting tired.
Pain changes shape after a while.
At the beginning, it sits in one place. You know where it is. You know what hurts.
Later, it starts spreading into everything around it.
Into decisions.
Into plans.
Into thoughts.
Into ordinary things that never needed thought before.
My day begins with him and ends with him.
I move when he asks for movement.
Physiotherapy.
Stretching.
Changing positions after sitting too long.
Walking around because staying still suddenly became a problem.
Then there are all the things I don’t do because he disagrees.
Walking longer than planned.
Running.
Dancing.
Spontaneous plans.
Staying out too long.
Tiny things start requiring negotiations.
Running out of toothpaste becomes planning.
Meeting friends becomes calculations.
Cooking becomes a choice between energy spent now and consequences later.
I spend energy before doing things, during things, and after things.
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He follows me everywhere.
He sits beside me during dinner.
Comes with me when I see friends.
Shows up in the middle of happy moments.
Wakes me up at night.
Reminds me he exists when I had almost forgotten him for five minutes.
Five minutes feels generous these days.
People see recovery happening.
People see progress.
People see me walking better than before.
People see improvement.
I see all of it too.
I am happy about it.
I just wish there was space for me somewhere inside that conversation.
Because every time someone asks,
“How is your knee?”
I answer.
I give updates.
I talk about bending degrees and swelling and strength and progress.
Then the conversation moves on, feeling complete.
As if the important answer was already given.
As if I had simply translated for him.
And kindness can feel lonely sometimes.
People ask because they care.
Still, hearing “How is your knee?” over and over again starts feeling like:
“How is the thing you are carrying?”
while quietly leaving out:
“How are you carrying it?”
Because if someone asked me that, my answer would probably be different.
I would say I am tired.
Sleep deprived.
Socially anxious.
Feeling less like myself.
Less independent.
Less attractive.
Less free.
I would say I miss myself sometimes.
The version that walked through life without having to think about every step.
But people ask about my knee.
And he is doing well.
I’m happy he is.
I just wish someone remembered there is still a me attached to him.
