I woke up today, as usual, by putting down my right
leg first. By so doing, it enables me generate enough strength to land the left one
and stand upright. Since I tore my knee tissues playing football on that fated
Saturday, this has been the routine. Sometimes, it is hard not to feel like a
handicap. Why do I always have to stand from bed with my right leg? Why is this always the first thing on my mind the moment I open my eyes? Well, it’s been an
incredible journey. The recovery process. It has come with lots of self-introspection. Sometimes, tinged with snippets of sadness.
The first two days after I had the injury, I was
fighting to keep myself from stubborn worries. I worried a lot. I worried about
what the scan result would be? Had I ruptured my cruciate ligament? Has the
knee cap shifted? Is there a fracture? I was in so much pain that I could
barely sleep at night. So I was convinced that one of the three possibilities
may be true. But even more worse for me was the thought of being
treated in Nigeria. I had already began to consider, just maybe, I may have to go abroad for treatment
if something indeed had gone wrong with the bone. I knew our
hospitals too well. There were risks you just didn't want to take.
Luckily, the scan revealed that the joints were in
their normal positon, but there was swelling on the knee tissues. Incidentally,
just a day after the scan, I got an email from a lady at the ECOWAS Building in
Asokoro. She seemed enthused to speak with me. She said she stumbled on one of
my articles online. According to her, she was in love with my writing. “I like
the fact that it was analytical without being pretentious. Well researched,
without being overly academic.” Those were her words, and it had me swooning
all over the place. I had even began to imagine a beautiful young face behind
the voice. I know. Men. We are all the same.
And then I
remembered my knee. I needed to meet with her the next day, and I couldn’t even
stand properly erect. I normally walk majestically. Unconsciously though. But
now I no longer had that walking touch. I prayed for a miracle. To make full
recovery overnight. But when I woke up the next morning, my knee was still how
it was. Crocked, stiff, hurting and fragile. The anti-inflammatory tablets eased
up the pain, and the stiffness around the knee. But the side effects scared me
a great deal. So I stopped them as soon as I can. But then the knee grew quite
stiff again, like it was the first day after the injury. I just stopped them
anyway.
“How are you?” She asked, walking me into her
office.
“I'm fine. But I could be better.”
I had mustered the courage to try to walk erect, in
my satin-breasted suit, and in high spirit. But I couldn’t stop myself from
limping in intervals. So I had to announce that I sustained an injury over the
weekend, just to make it known, I did not usually walk like that. It was easy. She
saw the humour in all of it. An incredibly brilliant, just didn't turn out as good-looking
as I had imagined the whole time. So we just talked business and I went home.
It’s now four months since the injury. I feel
better, but very unfit. I've had to manage my diet religiously. I've had two
months of physiotherapy, which has come with a financial burden I’d have love to avoid. But the psychological cost has been the most overwhelming. I've had
to really understand why professional sports teams provide therapist for their
injured athletes. Lots of things go through your head when you have a long term
injury. Anger. Regrets. Depression. Acceptance. You are angry about the game,
about the sports, about whoever made you sustain the injury, about why bones
crack, why joints shift, why tissues tear. You regret ever playing football,
you regret playing on that very day, and you regret ever loving the game. You
have a hard time keeping yourself from sadness. You tell yourself you’ll never
play football again. But if you are strong enough, you end up accepting the
situation. You take a deep breathe, and stop kicking yourself.
At some point, I felt I needed a therapist. I wasn't depressed or anything of that sort. Running was just an important part of my
life that I lost. I just missed it and it was hard to take. It helped me unwind
my mind. It helps me ease off. To feel light, in both body and soul. And not
being able to run meant that I had a lot of shit clogging up space in my mind.
In my head. I felt I needed to share. To say stuffs to people. To someone. But
it’s not me. Its not part of me to share issues carelessly. I guess sometimes,
you just can’t help it.
Till next time.
