Woe is knee.

I heard my doctor say the words. But they didn't quite register.

"I'm concerned."

He said it twice. He explained what could be happening and what the resulting course of action would be.

And I listened.

And I kept my composure.

And I agreed.

He promised to me, as a doctor and fellow human being, that he would figure out the problem and fix it.

Fix me.

Make me whole again.

Give me life. Again.

It's not just a knee anymore. It never was just a knee, actually. It was the proverbial straw that sent the camel crashing to the floor.

It was the blow that gave me mortality. The initial shock was all I needed to prove that I was indeed breakable. That I would not live forever despite what my not-quite-twenty-year-old brain thought.

And for years, it's been a constant reminder that I'm less than.

Less than perfect.

Less than strong.

Less than most.

My knee became my crutch. As a damaged human, I could never push myself hard enough to get hurt again. I could live forever, albeit not fully.

So I waited. And when I finally overcame the fear of healing, when I was ready to be whole again and face the world, the knee felt differently.

And my surgeon frowned. And I looked at the floor. We made plans. I limped to my car.

And I wept. Because this was the reason I waited. Because after a scary decision, I didn't want to go through the motions only to not improve.

Because the road ahead grew so much longer. And vanished over the horizon.