Was it playing offense so that Mr. 11 could learn to take a charge?
Was it the impossible-for-me-but-I'll-try-it-nonetheless piece in Pilates?
Is it the loosening of my psoas? The increased mass of my gluteus minimus?
I don't know. All I know is that my left knee, my good knee, is swollen to the size of a small grapefruit. It is tender to the touch, although much less tender than two days ago when it hurt so much I wasn't hungry for dinner.
This is one of those times when I'm glad I share my space with someone who's experienced these kinds of injuries before. He's gentle and soothing and fetches me ice packs and the adjustable cane and anything I want from the kitchen once my leg and I are comfortably ensconced on Douglas, pillows supporting the damaged limb.
He's also brutally honest. "Once it happens, it will happen again," is among the more encouraging tidbits he's shared. "We're getting older; our bodies are more fragile; you have to be careful," he goes on and I grit my teeth and listen because, despite my fervent desire that it not be so, he's right.
That doesn't mean I have to like it.
I've been here before. I think I was more stoic then. Back then, my only job was to heal. Right now, I am supposed to be training to climb the Sears Tower. Without expectations, sitting still turned out to be a transformational experience; I had 14 weeks to think about the unthinkable. But now, today, I should be sweating instead of grimacing.
And yet, the sun came up and I was here to see it... even if it was from the couch. I'm having a hard time having a hard day from that perspective. Thanks for listening to me whine.