I was never an athletic boy in my whole life. I was born in Bangladesh, a small rural country in South Asia. During my childhood in a rural farm town in Bangladesh, I had a lot of outdoor time, unlike kids today in New York City. I went to a small-town public middle school in Bangladesh, and they didn’t have many sports team options. Mostly, I played sports like volleyball, cricket, and football for fun with friends after school in the local field.
After I immigrated to the United States, I mostly did solo fitness activities like weightlifting and running. In the first three years of high school, I never played any team sports. I was super into weightlifting, encouraged by my physical education teacher, Mr. LaMarca. Throughout my four years of high school, I took Mr. LaMarca’s fitness class. By the end of my junior year, I was in the best shape of my life. At the beginning of my senior year, Mr. LaMarca asked me to join his volleyball class.
“I will talk to my guidance counselor to change my schedule,” I told him. Then I started going to his volleyball class. He was impressed that I already knew how to play volleyball pretty well. One day, the volleyball coach came to our class, and Mr. LaMarca asked me to try out for the team, and I said yes.
The first day of volleyball tryouts, I did pretty well, and I was sure the coach was impressed. Then came the second day. I was doing well until the middle of the practice game. My teammate and I were standing at the front of the net. A player on the other team was trying to spike the ball, so we jumped to block. But unfortunately, my teammate lost control, bumped into me, and fell on my left knee. I felt a weird, sharp pain inside my knee.
After five minutes, I stood up and tried to run to see how my knee felt. The moment I landed on my left knee, it gave out on me. At that moment, I knew that this was a very serious, life-changing injury.
I sat down, and I couldn’t believe it. A part of my brain was telling me this was nothing and I would be back to normal in a week or two. But I knew that wasn’t true. After practice was over, my friend walked me to my car. The moment I got inside, I couldn’t hold my emotions anymore. I knew forget playing sports this seasons, this is going to be a long road to recovery. At that moment my brain was running light speed fueled by emotions telling me two different things at the same time.
Later, I went to see an orthopedic doctor. The doctor did a Lachman test and then said, “This is a torn ACL injury. Let’s do an MRI, and then we’ll talk more.” After the MRI, it was confirmed, and he said, “The only way to fix this, is through surgery. It is impossible for the ACL to heal on its own.” One of the scariest word on my dictionary at that time was surgery.
A hospital is a building full of emotions. People die, heal, and are born inside those walls. The surgery is the easiest part for the patient. From the moment I was told to change and lay on the bed, I felt safe. Before the surgery, the surgeon came to talk to me and give some advice on what to do after the surgery when I go home. The nurse shaved my leg hair near the knee. Then they did an ultrasound to find the muscle group to administer some type of muscle anesthesia for pain after the surgery. After all that surgery preparation, I was taken into the operating room. There I met the anesthesia team. They were very friendly, and they were probably lovers, making fun of the head surgeon by my ear. They told me to get ready and started the medicines. Then I blinked, and a nurse asked me if I wanted some apple juice. Just like that, it was over, and now it was time to go home.
Going home after the procedure with my parents was very easy. The hardest part was coming back again the next morning for a follow-up with the surgeon. The pain was already making me cry since 3 a.m. that morning after the muscle anesthesia wore off. In the morning, my mother couldn’t put a shoe on my foot because of the knee pain. After making it to the surgeon’s office in a wheelchair with my mother exhausted, I heard the sweetest thing ever: that my surgery went very well and my knee looked good now.
After getting my knee cleaned by the nurse, we were ready to go home. Then the nurse told me to start walking with crutches right away and not to use the wheelchair ever again. Also, when I got home that day, I would have to start bending my knee. I remember thinking there was no way I could do that now. She made me walk on my feet out of the office and down the hallway, while my mom pushed an empty wheelchair behind me. When I was one nanometer away from crying out loud, the surgeon came and asked the nurse to let me ride the wheelchair for today. She was probably a Navy SEAL drill sergeant before becoming a nurse.
If someone asked me to describe physical therapy in three words, I would say hell on Earth. It is not fun like weight lifting. In my opinion, it is a very sad place. Everybody in a physical therapy gym is recovering from surgery or injury. More than ninety percent of the patients are elderly, and none of them want to do these exercises. Especially the physical therapy place I went to was not good. If I recall correctly, I made more than five calls to find a place that would take my insurance. This place was the saddest and most boring place I have ever been to.
At first, I would do some basic movements like sitting and standing. It sounds easy, but it was super hard for me at that time. It made me cry inside my head while struggling to perform these super simple movements. Also, the therapist would not give me time to rest because other patients were waiting. Going to the local gym on my own helped me heal better than the therapist’s place. After a few months of therapy, they would not let me squat with weights, even though my surgeon told me I was cleared for that exercise. Maybe they were afraid of getting sued if I got injured at their place. The surgeon was happy with my recovery, most of which came from my own work at the local family-owned gym.
Recovery from ACL surgery is very slow and non-linear, unlike normal injury recovery. There is no blood bringing nutrients to the tendon graft that is becoming a ligament inside my knee. After four months, my insurance canceled physical therapy. I remember being happy that I didn’t have to go to that place again.
After ten months of exercise the surgeon finally gave me all cleared to play sports again. I have a lot of respect for people who go through any kind recovery.
Recently, a few weeks ago, I injured the same knee again while playing badminton with a friend. That’s why I was wearing my knee brace for the first couple of weeks of college. I was scared that I might have to go through this journey again. But after doing an MRI, I was told by the same surgeon that it’s not serious, and I will be fine by just doing some physical therapy.
At the end, I would say that this crazy, long journey has only made me stronger — mostly mentally. Leg still little bit weak.