Today, Sept 19, 2010 marks the 7-year anniversary of my very first A.C.L. surgery. It is also international talk like a pirate day.
Seven years ago, as I prepared to go under the knife my anesthesiologist was talking like a pirate. I, the misinformed 13-year-old, interrupted him and told him, no, talk like a pirate day was yesterday.
As I remember the loss of my right anterior cruciate ligament, I see one way to make it up to him. In the rest of this post I will recount my knee troubles in full-fledged pirate (pretend you’re Ishmael):
Me Hearties, when I was a wee lass, just entering the sea of high school, I tried out for the varsity soccer team and shiver me timbers, I made it. Alas, after me first practice I was as good as shark bait. In what felt like a canon blast, me knee collapsed and I was doomed for Davy Jone’s locker. Poseidon’s fury left me with no option but to succumb to the land lover’s art of surgery.
Me heart sank. I felt marooned. The second week of high school I went under the knife and was forced to wear a massive brace made of tentacle legs. I hobbled around. Me leg less useful than a peg. For many months I was shipwrecked in rehab cove. Pain, despair and fear were me wenches. Aye, once me leg was healed, once me ship could sail again, me other leg crashed on the treacherous reef of fate and me left A.C.L. was snapped, as if by the Kraken’s beak.
It was back to the knife and the port. This time, me wenches were determination and willpower and me octopus brace me friend instead of me foe. Finally, I saw red skies at night, (a sailors delight) and was able to set sail.
This ol’ sea dog has still got her legs, and scars like treasure maps carved into the skin.