& Her
A Girl
KNEE
One gymnast’s candid account of what
really happens after you tear an ACL
By Diana Gallagher
THE most important part of getting injured is remembering your Social Security number. I hadn’t been to the hospital in two years. I’d almost
forgotten my Social Security number. Nobody
had been too interested in asking for “my digits”
when I was healthy. It struck me that before anyone asked what body part hurt, they needed that
number first—as if it would prove that I really
existed. As a returnee to Cortland Memorial
Hospital, I was already in the computer.
“Is this it?” The secretary read off the digits. I
nodded, relieved that she wasn’t asking me to
recite the number.
This visit, I knew to wear clothes. The first
time, as an inexperienced freshman, I’d arrived
in a leotard and Spandex shorts, a jean jacket
thrown on as an afterthought to the cold day.
The secretary had given me the once-over and
asked, “So are you a soccer player?”
Another important set of numbers awaits you:
“On a scale of one to 10—with one being the
least pain and 10 being the worst pain you can
imagine—how would you rate your pain?” I
don’t want to commit to a seven, but a six is
weak. Six point eight? That will do.
When you first realize that something is
wrong, questions race through your mind. Not
necessarily What’s wrong with me? but detailed
thoughts such as, How am I going to climb into
the top bunk? or Do I have to call my parents?
A gymnast doesn’t think, Wow, I can’t walk.
The first reaction is, You mean I can’t tumble?
What if I wrap it and take some Ibuprofen?
Are you sure? I’ll ice it, I promise.
No matter what you’ve injured, someone else
has hurt the same body part, and probably has a
better story. But if you can make a gymnast
pause and say, “Wow, you did that?” then you
can consider yourself a pioneer.
Sure, the blowing-out-of-the-knee incident was
dramatic. The ACL, MCL and meniscus of my
right knee tore in unison when I landed a full on
floor—a skill I had done hundreds of times.
There was the expected yelling out in pain, the
rolling on the ground in fetal position, the imme-
diate knowledge of, This is bad. My body start-
ed to panic and go into shock, and I almost
passed out. But I didn’t cry. I think that’s impor-
tant to note.
What you wouldn’t give for those good old days.
But walking without crutches is a sign of
progress, right? Hopping and crawling become
your new modes of transportation. Your post-surgery brace runs from your ankle to your thigh.
When you take steps without the brace, your leg
feels lighter. Free. Possibly because the muscles
have vanished. You forget the old rhythm of heel
to toe. You learn to love your limp. In fact,
you’re so proficient with your new gait that,
every afternoon, you refuse a ride from your
teammates and, instead, hobble to the training
room, tiptoeing around ice patches. The January
snows of upstate New York do not care if you’re
injured.
The training room is filled with the Minorly
Injured taping their ankles pre-practice. You, the
Majorly Injured, will remain here while the other
athletes head off to practice. You’ll wave when
they return for their post-practice ice baths.
You navigate through the wrestlers, swimmers
and basketball players who have ice taped to all
parts of their bodies. You find a free table and
shimmy onto its red padding, stomach first,
before anyone can beat you.
“How are we feeling today?” asks the trainer,
a student not much older than you.
“Fantastic.”
“You’re using your brace, right?”
“Of course.”
The trainer doesn’t believe you, but he rolls up
his sleeves. You clench your teeth and resign
yourself to your fate: flexion.
The trainer bends your leg, pushing your heel
toward your butt. Your hamstring does everything it can to fight the heel away. You grip the
table as your face turns the same shade as the
padding. Your muscles protest against this cruel
outside invasion.
“Relax! You have to relax!” the trainer says.
Commands to relax seem paradoxical. Everything in your knee is going to snap in one …
more … push.
“Find a happy place,” the trainer encourages.
Sand. Waves. Snapping ligaments—oh, God!
You break into a sweat, close your eyes, and see
black and red until the trainer loosens his hold.
Only four reps to go.
