PRP Therapy: Round Two

I can understand why you’d think platelet-rich plasma injections are a form of torture. Yesterday, as I was lying on the doctor’s table, getting stabbed over and over again with a two-inch needle, I started thinking the same. But I wasn’t held against my will; I paid $215 for the treatment. My hope is that the therapy, called PRP for short, will heal my knee. (Never heard of PRP? Read all about it here.)

Oct. 9, 2009
I arrived at the doctor’s office at 7:15 in the morning, groggy from a night of tossing and turning. (Thanks, 300-pound man upstairs who strapped on cement shoes and rearranged furniture between midnight and 2 a.m.)

Step 1: donate blood for the injections. I followed a nurse to a back room where she tied a rubber band around my biceps and pierced a needle into my vein. She drained blood from my arm using a jumbo syringe—it was at least 4 inches tall and had the circumference of a quarter. Once the bloodletting stopped, I returned to the waiting room while the nurse spun my blood in a centrifuge.

Step 2: beg for mercy. After a little chitchat—I told the doc that the tendon that connects my knee cap to my quad had been a little sore and swollen from my last round of PRP—I plunked down on the table, rolled up my pant leg, and braced myself. She swabbed the knee with alcohol, covered it with iodine, then picked up a small syringe full of my blood platelets—those parts of blood spun free in the centrifuge—and primed it for injection. I squeezed my thighs with hands like tightened claws.

The first injection is always the hardest. Don’t ask why. When the doctor first touched the needle to my knee, my nails dug into my thighs, my heart started racing, and my breath became erratic. Breathe! I told myself as the needle wiggled around under my skin, spraying platelets into my tendons. Concentrate! Breathe! I reminded myself when the needle jutted into my knee joint and below the kneecap.

Blood is thicker than water, I thought. The old proverb’s double meaning really made sense. I wondered if the man who first said the phrase had ever been injected with his own plasma.

I received six injections in all, in the tendons above and below my knee, under the kneecap, and on both sides of the knee. By the time the injections were over and my leg was taped up with a bandage, my knee had already started to stiffen up, and putting weight on it sent a shooting pain up my leg. My husband pulled my crutches from the car—I came prepared this time—and zipped home before my leg stiffened up but good.

Post-op
There are two things, and only two things, that are wonderful after PRP. The first is a bed. I lazed in bed all day yesterday, keeping my leg straight as possible and yelping in pain whenever I absentmindedly twitched a muscle. The second is Vicodin. During my first round of PRP I avoided the pain meds for more than six hours before I caved. This time, my doctor assured me I wouldn’t win a medal for passing on the pills, so I took half a pill with breakfast when I got home and another half at lunch. Sure, I still cringed every time my leg almost kinda slightly bent, but I least I didn’t cry when I wiggled my toes.

Which brings me to my least favorite part of getting PRP: going to the bathroom. Making it the 7 feet from my bed to bathroom is a tiring, often painful, usually annoying ordeal. And that’s with crutches. My No. 1 tip? Drink with caution.

Oct. 10, 2009
After only a day, the pain is less intense. Sure, putting weight on my foot or sitting without using my hands is absolutely, 100 percent, no questions asked out of the question. But even without pain meds I can shift my leg in bed without pain. That’s major stride I’m smiling about.

The white, gauzy bandage is still on my knee—I know what you’re thinking, and no I haven’t taken a shower in two days—but once I remove it tomorrow, I plan to snap a photo of my leg. If all goes as planned, I should look bruised and battered but feel even better than today.