My Story, Part II

This is the part where I get hurt (again), cry, hired a physical therapist, fight for my health, cry, and shop for a decent doc.

When I moved into my Washington, D.C.-area apartment in January 2009, there was a nagging pain in my left knee that I fought through in order to put away all of our dishes, shop for a couch, and color coordinate my closet. It was my commute—from Maryland to Virginia on the overly crowded metro—that forced my knee to give up on me.

The D.C. metro is a little slice of hell on earth with too few seats and too many riders for too many stops. There’s a lot of walking involved when you switch trains, and then there’s standing and waiting for the next train to come. There’s also—more often than my knee liked—a lot of standing during the trip. The people on the metro are little hellions who pretend not to notice when you limp on the train with a knee brace, search for a seat while fighting back tears, and settle for a spot on the ground. (I’m talking about you, able-bodied business man who made eye contact with me during one such trip before stuffing your face in a newspaper.)

Dr. Busy
I signed up for physical therapy in March even though I wouldn’t have insurance with my new job until mid-April. Each physical therapy session was $120 a pop, but I felt OK with that since I was strengthening my leg and (allegedly) healing my knee.

By the time I visited an orthopedic in the area, I had been making weekly physical therapy trips for a couple months. My knees (yep, the right one gave in, too) weren’t improving, so I pleaded for help. Dr. Busy took x-rays of my knee, then ordered an MRI. Both came back clean, so Dr. Busy told me it should heal up with physical therapy. I told Dr. Busy that I was having trouble walking the length of my 800-square-foot apartment and that my husband often had to pick me up from the couch and carry me to the kitchen.

“People with patella femoral pain typically don’t have problems walking or standing. Their pain usually happens when they run or climb stairs,” he said, furiously writing in my chart.

“Aha. Then why does it hurt me to walk and stand?” I asked as he sidled up to the door.

“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do but keep up with the physical therapy,” said Dr. Busy, turning the knob. “Alright? So, try that.” He was out the door.

That was the day I fired my doctor.

Dr. Kind
The second doctor I visited was a kind old man with a comforting smile and a love of analogies. He spent 30 minutes examining me, smiling, and explaining why my knees were like a pair of bad tires on a pretty good car. Dr. Kind ordered a round of steroids to suck the swelling from my barely bendable left knee, and made me feel better about the practice of medicine. Dr. Kind also made me feel better about my knees. After seven days of steroids, my knee had shrunken to half its size; my physical therapist asked if I lost a heckuva lot of weight. My pants fit again.

Dr. Hotshot
I visited Dr. Hotshot not because Dr. Kind scummed me or made a mistake, but because Dr. Kind specialized in shoulders, and I wanted a knee guy. Dr. Hotshot is a young orthopedic surgeon who treats professional athletes with injuries that need healing fast. I need healing fast, I thought, so I gave him a ring.

Dr. Hotshot said I had chondromalacia and needed physical therapy—stat. Since my knee had been so swollen, the physical therapy hadn’t worked to build any muscle. I went home, cried over my lack of progress, felt depressed about the money I threw away, then made an appointment with Dr. Hotshot’s favorite physical therapist.

Read the rest of my story here.