DETAILS OF
Last week in church, I gave a talk and mentioned some experiences I have had in my life. After church, a man came to me and asked if he could have a copy of the full story of the experiences I shared. I agreed to it, and one of the experiences was my knee. I finally took time to sit down and write it down from the beginning to end. 17 whole pages. In honor of today being my three-year anniversary of the first knee surgery, here it is. The entire story—from beginning to end. Every detail.
Coming into high school, I thought I had my life planned out. I was going to play basketball, volleyball, and run track. I had three goals: be able to dunk the basketball by the time I was a senior, become the hardest middle hitter in Idaho, and break the school record for long jump because I was only jumping a foot less than the 17’ 1” record.
I started high school off on the right foot, actually being the only freshmen to make the Varsity Volleyball team and start. The coach I had was absolutely incredible and the growth I made as a player that year was immense.
Then, I started basketball up. My team was projected to be the state champions as Juniors and Seniors because we had only lost two games in all of middle school and all the tournaments we played in the Spring and Summer. I couldn’t wait to be at a state tournament and feel the hard work pay off. I would literally dream about it at night. However, they split up my team my freshman year. We were left with 7 of us as the entire team, and three of the teammates had never played basketball before. We were in for an interesting year.
It turned out to be nothing short of an interesting year. There wasn’t a game that went by that I didn’t get injured. The injuries, at first, ranged from jammed fingers, bruised pelvises, and even a broken toe. It was unreal to me how easily I was getting injured. To me, it was unreal. Then, I got injured really bad. I wrote an essay shortly after it happened, and I feel this is the best way to explain what happened. I titled it ‘The Climb’:
By the echoing sound of numerous basketballs rebounding off the old hardwood gym floor, and the rapid high-pitched screeches coming from the other side of the door, it was obvious that our opponents had arrived, and, just like us, already finished their pre-game pep talk. My shaking fingers extended outward finally grasping the door handle. I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if it would somehow ward off the butterflies that had just recently deemed my stomach to be a good home.
It was time. As I entered in, the constant current of air rushed against my skin as it struggled into the hallway, causing my veins to constrict and my body to consequently shudder. My team of seven newly found best friends gathered around to form a circle, our arms woven in and out of each other, our trust for one another being tremendous.
Meanwhile, our opponents had stopped their warm up and stood still as they watched our unity, almost as if they were mocking us. Their faces were all too familiar, not to mention the elbows that we had all felt, having had them jabbed into our ribs unknown to any viewers, or the legs that had kicked us when the ref’s backs were turned. Being reunited with the dirtiest basketball players I had ever encountered in all my life only made my vowed revenge sting that much more. All hopes of their jerk-for-a-coach miraculously not showing up to the game, dashed, when there he stood on the sidelines, still wearing the same smirk he had when they’d previously cheated their way to a victory over us a few weeks back. Next to the score table stood two young men wearing the unmistakable uniforms made up of black-and-white vertical striped shirts and matching black pants. I noticed their young faces lacked the stress lines of the experienced. These “officials” were definitely new to the job, signifying the start of another rough game.
“Okay girls, you know the rules. Jump on the whistle. You’re going that way, and you’re going that way,” the ref said, pointing to each of the baskets. I bent my knees, bringing my right leg forward ready to jump at the sound of the whistle. As the pressure on my right foot increased, the throbbing pain in my middle toe increased accordingly, almost causing me to wonder if I should sit this game, but this was no ordinary game. This was Skyline. I wasn’t going to sit out for anything, not even if I had a broken leg. I was standing in the circle facing my opponent, Savannah, when the ref extended his hand out in the middle of us, holding in his palm the leather-covered sphere close enough for me to see the rivets and raised dots that gave it a rough texture for more gripping power. We were just seconds away from the start of our giant climb. Just like any other basketball game we had played, we were racing up a mountain, and only one team would make it all the way to the top to be crowned the victor while the losing team is to sit and watch the victors gloat. It’s nothing but a mental race with physical struggles and obstacles. Just then, the ref whistled and tossed the basketball straight above Savannah’s and my own head. With all my strength, I pushed off the ground reaching as high as I could, feeling the stretch in my right shoulder, until my hand connected with the basketball and I instinctively flicked the ball behind me. My team had retrieved it, and the climb had begun.
It only took a few moments for the fouling to start, and with every passing second, the frustration level for both teams was increasing, and the secret elbow jabs, pushing, and kicking broke out. Skyline was struggling to make their shots, contributing to a deteriorating composure. They started making bad passes, resulting in a turnover and a point for us almost every time. After a Skyline player was hurt and refused to leave the floor, she pushed the ref. There were just too many fouls to call, and the game was quickly turning into a boxing match. My team had also begun to whisper things like “Good job!” when Skyline would mess up, or when they would shoot a free throw, someone would say, “Don’t miss!” just before they would release the ball and airball it. Before we knew it, it was half time and both the game and Skyline coach had gotten completely out of control. It sure didn’t help that the refs weren’t calling anything for or against either team.
When halftime was over, the madness started all over again, resulting in their coach calling a timeout. “Take that number four girl out!” yelled their coach. I heard it. My team heard it. My coaches heard it. I think the only people that didn’t hear were the refs. Trembling, I looked down at my jersey, only to confirm my fears; I was number four.
We were back in the game soon enough, and with each new possession, there would also be a lead change in the score. It was evident this game was going to be a close one. During one of our possessions, I was on the block posting up when the ball broke loose. Without thinking, I jumped for it, and that’s when time seemed to slow. After I had the ball safely under me, I looked up just in time to see two Skyline defenders jump on me. I heard a big pop, followed by shooting pains up and down my leg that caused indescribable pain that I had never felt before. The noise was like none else I had ever heard. I couldn’t move. “This is it,” I thought, clenching the floor like a baby holds a blanket to their face, but unable to grasp it. “I am done. I won’t ever be able to play basketball again. I probably tore my ACL, and I am done for.” I couldn’t do anything but keep repeating through the instant tears that welled up “No, no, noooo….” I eventually was able to roll over, and reluctantly look at my leg, unbelieving of what they had just done to me. My left knee cap was on the outer side of my leg, undoubtedly out of place. “Alice, get up. Get up! You are fine. You are going to finish this game,” said the voice inside my head giving me the much needed motivation. I closed my eyes and held my breath, trying to forget the pain. Reaching down, I dug my thumb and forefinger under my patella, and as I forced my leg straight, I felt and heard the same excruciating “Pop!”, as it slid back into place. I couldn’t help but notice the triumphant look on Skyline’s faces. In their minds, I was out of the game.
“Way to go girls! You got her!” the Skyline coach said as he was giving high fives to each of the girls on his team during the timeout he had just called. When the game started up again, I was now watching from the bench. I watched for a few minutes, the pain getting increasingly agonizing, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to finish this race. “Coach, I am ready whenever you are.” Both of my coaches looked at me like I was insane. “Are you sure you can play?” Sheila asked. All I could do was nod my head for fear the tears would start again. The lead was rocking back and forth between possessions, and before we knew it, regulation time was over, and the score was tied.
Moments into the first overtime, I could tell the Skyline coach was very upset that I was still able to play. We were running the press, and I was back side, so I was down at the opposite end of the court when my teammate fouled. We lined up on the free throw line while the ref leisurely walked over to the table and held up four fingers, then rotated his hand “Foul’s on forty-four white.” “That’s five,” came the instant reply from the scorekeepers, which meant that she had fouled out. “Wait no. You meant four. The foul was on four,” whined the annoying Skyline coach. The ref just stopped and contemplated. “Yeah he’s right. Four, you’re out.” “Wh, wh…wait. What?!” I was speechless. I had been nowhere near the girl, yet there was no use swaying the ref’s minds that had obviously been brainwashed by this coach whose face was now wearing an even worse smirk. He had done it again. This coach was going to cheat his way to a victory one way or another. I couldn’t believe it; I was out, and this time for good.
Before I knew it, we were down to a few seconds left in the second overtime. We were ahead by a point, and the refs had allowed the Skyline coach to dictate every one of their moves. Then right at the end, one of the Skyline girls threw up a shot. The gym was silent, as we all held our breaths, and I closed my eyes. By the swishing sound and the remaining silence by the Blackfoot spectators, I knew they had won the climb. My heart sank. We had all worked so hard, only to be robbed. Unwillingly, I went through the line to shake all of their hands, only to hear more colorful words than I had ever heard at one time before. As I walked out of the gym, I shook my head. I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. I couldn’t believe I had let myself get so into something that didn’t even matter that much. What mattered was that I had learned a lesson, and I still had my team. That is, until next year…
At the time I had written this essay, I was fairly positive that I would be playing sports in the next few months, but that was not the case. It is really interesting for me to go back and read that essay because I had absolutely no idea what I was truly in for. I can’t help but shake my head at the mere lack of any sort of glimpse as to what was coming next.
At this point, I refused to go to the doctor about my knee because deep down I knew without a doubt that I would be told that I couldn’t play sports anymore while the injury healed. I was afraid I would be told that I could never play again. I almost finished out the season, but the pain was too excruciating for me to handle. I broke down and let my mom take me to the doctor. This appointment literally changed my life forever.
I found out three things. First, I was diagnosed with Panic Attacks, which mimicked a heart attack. I had been having lots of chest pain, chest tightness, and shortness of breath. I learned that my body just randomly throws itself in a panic attack that causes it.
Second, I was diagnosed with a severe case of Raynaud’s Phenomenon. I had no idea what that meant, other than I have a pretty screwed up circulation disease. I am extremely sensitive to temperature change. All of my veins are too small, which means that I don’t have a very efficient blood flow resulting in anemia. I am constantly exhausted due to the lack of oxygen. I had to be extremely careful with getting cold, because when I get cold, my veins contract and cut off my circulation—resulting in my purple skin. I also found out that any injury I had would take on average, six times longer for me to heal than a normal person. The hardest part for me was that I was put on an extremely dangerous medication. That was not what I wanted to hear.
Third, I had hurt my knee. They didn’t know how bad it was, so I was put into a brace. As I had imagined, I was told no more basketball for me. As my eyes filled with tears, the doctor asked how much longer I had left in the season. I told him that the following day was my last game. He sat back in his chair, thought for a moment, then informed me that I could play in that game if I was extra careful, wore the brace, and put on a medicated patch right before the game. I agreed to it, and played my heart out during that game. I had no idea when I would next be playing. However, I suffered another injury that only set me back even further.
Towards the end of the game, my team was ahead, and we were pressing. Since I was the 5-man, my position was across the court on the free-throw line. I was determined to steal the ball, and when the opposing player threw the ball in, I watched the ball being lobbed all the way across the court to the opposing player just in front of me. Instinctively, I ran towards the ball thinking, “I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.” I ran forward a little and jumped into the air. Using my height and jumping skills to my advantage, I leapt higher than my opponent, and felt both my hands envelope the basketball for the steal, just before I felt my teammates palm upper cut my left cheekbone, snapping my head back and causing the world to go black. Next, I felt my opponents body slam into mine, throwing my body back. I felt helpless. I seemed to helplessly fall forever, until my head hit something really hard, followed by the rest of my body.
I’m not sure how long I was unconscious, but when I finally opened my eyes, I was laying on the out of bounds line surrounded by my teammates and coach, all asking if I was okay. It took a moment to grasp what happened, but as soon as I remembered I was in the middle of a basketball game, I jumped up ready to play. The world began to spin, and they made me sit on the bench where I became more and more confused. By the time the buzzer went off, I was beyond confused, and all I wanted was to sleep.
I’m not sure how the team meeting went after our game, nor do I remember how I got home that night, but I did, eyes dilated and head pounding. Before anyone could stop me, I had climbed into bed and fallen asleep. No one had known the extent of my injury until I woke up the next morning unable to talk. I went to school thinking I would be okay, but only got told to stop playing stupid by one of my teachers.
A week went by, and I could slowly start talking again, but I became extremely frustrated because I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t get my mouth to say it. A month went by, and the headache was still constant. Eventually, I was able to speak fairly normal again, but even today I can’t talk as fast, and I stumble pretty often. Words don’t sound normal to me, and oftentimes I can think of the word I want to say, but I forget how to say it, but overall, I am extremely blessed that I have recovered this much.
It wasn’t until about six weeks later that I became concerned with my knee again. I attended early morning seminary with my brother, and one morning, I didn’t pay much attention to my knee for another six weeks or so. I attended early morning seminary with my older brother, Sam. It was the morning after daylight savings, so when we arrived at school at 6:50, it was still dark outside. Normally, we arrived at 6:45, but just before we left, my family had scriptures and prayers like we did every morning, but then I had a prompting to put on my knee brace for school that day. Thankfully, I listened to the prompting. We parked in the back parking lot, then walked through the school so that we could cross the street for seminary. As I walked out the main doors of the high school, I oddly walked out the far left door. The odd part was that this door was broken. I knew it. Everyone knew it, but I still tried to go out of it. It wouldn’t open easily, and I ended up hurting my elbow from running into it. I struggled through the door, and stood on the sidewalk for a second to hold my elbow. As I did, I looked up and had a prompting to memorize the three cars across the street dropping students off to seminary. Not only did I memorize the cars, but I memorized who got out of the cars as well. My brother and I continued towards the seminary building, and as we crossed the street, the oncoming cars made me very nervous. One car in particular seemed to be getting closer and closer, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t stop. I was a few paces behind my brother as the car approached, and it didn’t slow down at all. I realized it wasn’t going to stop, and I had to brace myself for the hit. Because of my knee, I couldn’t get out of the way. I screamed my brother’s name and go this attention just in time for him to get out of the way, but I wasn’t so lucky. The car hit me right on, and I was thrown on top of the hood—the car still not stopping. My brother was able to reach over fast enough to grab me and hold onto me. With his arm, I was able to roll off the hood. Both my feet got run over, but I was surprisingly ok. Sam hit his fist against the window, and I had never seen that angry look on Sam’s face before. I watched as the car sped off and turned the corner. My brother literally grabbed my bag and dragged me to the side of the road. I was trying to piece together what happened, and Sam looked me in the eye, and he was furious. He asked, “Are you okay?” I said, “Yes, Sam. I’m fine.” I started walking into the building and Sam grabbed my backpack again and said, “No, Alice. Are you okay?” I once again reassured him that I would be fine, and we proceeded to class.
I went into shock for a few hours, and as a result, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. Finally, as I came out of shock, I figured I should call my mom. It wasn’t until then that I had realized the extent of everything was. I had been the victim of a hit and run. I had to go to the police, and eventually we got everything worked out. Because I had memorized the car, I was able to tell the police the kind of car, the color, and who got out of the car. Because of my knee brace, I walked away without a worse injury to me knee. The man that hit me was in my stake, and he hadn’t scraped his windows that morning. He truly had no idea that he had hit me, nor that I was on the hood of his car! The police left it up to my brother and I whether or not we would press charges. We both knew the man and his son, and we knew it wasn’t intentional. We also knew that they struggled financially, too. We came to the conclusion that we didn’t want to press charges, just make sure the man scraped his windows. Ultimately, my family and the police were left shaking their heads at the complete miracle that I walked away from the accident fine and that I had been thrown on top of the car instead of underneath the car. I know that I was being watched over that day.
As the months progressed, my knee continued to bother me a little, but not too bad. My six months of sitting out of sports was almost over. It would be over just in time to attend two basketball camps with my team, and I couldn’t be more excited. I took my knee brace, and spent an entire week in St. George, Utah playing about 20 games. My knee felt fantastic, and I had improved so much! I went home for a week, then came back for another week of basketball in Cedar City, Utah. My knee was a little sore, but not too bad.
I played an entire day of basketball, then woke up the next day to continue playing. The head coach came to watch my first game that day. I remember pulling moves that I didn’t know I could do. I wowed myself at the level I was now playing at. The coach had me subbed out for a moment because Kirkham, the head coach, wanted to talk to me. He asked me where I had learned all of this stuff. I told him that I truly didn’t know. I was just excited to be back playing the game I loved, and that positive energy was probably what the driving force behind this was. He informed me that I was now on Varsity, and I got subbed back into the game. I can’t even describe the complete excitement that I had! We played for a minute or two, then my teammate passed me the ball, only it was a little too high of a pass. I jumped in the air just as my teammate did the same. We collided, and I felt my knee dislocate again, then I landed on it. It felt like the game six months previous when I had initially been injured—only worse. This time I couldn’t hold back the tears. The disappointment. The fear. I had to lay on the floor for a half hour while the athletic trainer had to come get me. They took off my brace, put my knee back into place and carried me to his training room. That was the last basketball game I have ever played.
I got home at the end of the week, but once again, I was adamant that I not go to the doctor because I had a pioneer trek to go on the following week. I had already been on one pioneer trek, and it had completely changed my life. I didn’t care if I had my leg cut off! I was going again. My mom said that I could go, but I had to go to the doctor again.
I went back to the doctor, told him what was going on, and then said, “Well, you can say whatever you want, but I have a pioneer trek next week, and I am going no matter what.” He just chuckled and said, “Okay, then I won’t tell you that you can’t go, but I will tell you that it is going to hurt really bad.” I just said, “The pioneers were hurting, too, and they did it. I can do it.” We set up an appointment with the orthopaedic surgeon the Monday after the trek, because my injury was now too complex for the doctor I had been seeing.
The night before the trek came, and I was having serious questions about whether to go or not. I can’t even put into words how much pain I was in. I couldn’t even walk. How was I suppose to go walk thirty miles if I couldn’t even walk? I asked my dad for a priesthood blessing, and he and my neighbor, Darwin gave me one. As soon as the blessing finished, I was able to walk. Once again, nothing short of a miracle.
I went early the next morning to start the journey. I had one goal—to walk the entire way. I didn’t want anyone to carry me, put me in the handcart, or even get into the medical van. The first and second day came and went. I wouldn’t sit a single time on the trail because as soon as I sat, I wasn’t able to get up and walk again. It was by far the hardest physical thing I had done in my life at that time. Each night I would get to camp, sit down, and be unable to move until the next morning. The pain was beyond excruciating, each day getting worse and worse. The third day, I was not excited to get up at all. I could hardly move my leg or put pressure on it. I was able to pull through for the first hour, then we reached the biggest hill we had encountered the entire trek. I stood at the base of the hill wondering how in the world I would climb it. I had reached my end. There was no way. Then, it was announced that the boys would be taken away. I knew it—this was the women’s pull.
I looked around at my trek family—only having four other girls. We had the smallest amount of girls in our family. I looked at the two twelve-year-olds that were extremely little. There was no way they could pull the handcart, nor would they be any help. I looked at my sister that was my age, but half my size and thought the same thing. I looked at my Ma who was overheated, and couldn’t even help us pull the cart. Last, I looked at my trek sister who was older than me, but struggling with a hip injury. I realized that somehow I would be the one who had to pull the handcart. Now was my turn to rely on the Lord. All of the women got together, had a spiritual thought, and said a prayer. By the time the prayer was over, I was bawling. I struggled back to my handcart, stood in the front middle so that I could carry most of the weight and pull this cart. My knee was now hurting worse than it ever had before, and I truly didn’t think I could take another step. I watched as one by one, the handcarts in front of us started and struggled up the hill. It was so difficult to watch them each struggle so immensely. Then, it came to us. It was my turn. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said a quick prayer. I opened my eyes, looked at each of my sister’s and said, “On three. One, two, THREE!” I took my first step, and for the first time in over seven months, I had absolutely no pain in my leg. I suddenly felt so strong. I was able to pull the handcart all the way up the hill without stopping. People stood in awe as they watched my family. We finally reached the top, and I turned around in time to see my trek brother reach out to touch our handcart. The instant his hand touched the handcart, I collapsed from the pain that suddenly overtook my entire body. I know without a shadow of a doubt that was yet, another miracle. Another miracle brought on by my faith, and ultimately strengthened my testimony.
I returned home and sat for the next 48 hours until my doctor appointment. I struggled into Dr. Huntsman’s office, super nervous to find out my diagnosis. As I relayed the entire story so that he could figure out what to do about my knee, he sat in awe and asked me, “How are you even still walking? This sounds serious enough that you shouldn’t even be able to walk.” Another miracle.
I was immediately sent to the hospital for an MRI, then came back a week later to find out the results. I went into the appointment fully expecting to hear that I had torn my ACL or my MCL, but was rather shocked to hear that it was only a meniscus tear. Dr. Huntsman reassured me that this was the simplest knee surgery possible, and if all went as planned, I would be completely recovered in three weeks. I was shocked to hear that it was such a simple fix for the injury that had caused me so much pain. We set up the surgery date for August 4, 2010. A few days before the surgery, I developed a cough. My Mom asked if I was sick, and I told her no, and she then informed me that I can’t go under anesthetic with a cold, or I could stop breathing. That scared me to death, and I all of a sudden became very nervous for the procedure. The morning of my surgery came, and my stomach was all knotted up. Something was going to go wrong. I just knew it. I didn’t know what, but something would not go the way we had planned.
I arrived at the hospital, and got all prepped for surgery. The IV was put into my arm, which was a feat of mine. I hate needles because when I was in 4th grade, I had my tonsils out. When the IV was put into my arm, it was twisted, and my vein exploded. It hurt really bad, thus my fear for needles.
My fears were only confirmed and my life altered much more when I slowly came out of the anesthetic and said to the nurse, “That was more than twenty minutes, wasn’t it?” only to have her respond nervously, “Ummmm, I’m gonna go get your parents.” The nurse disappeared, and I closed my eyes for what felt about fifteen minutes. My parents finally came into my recovery room and asked how I was feeling. My mom asked if I wanted a drink. To me, it felt like there was something that my parents weren’t telling me. I knew something had gone wrong.
I finally just asked my parents what was wrong. My dad said, “Well, it was a lot worse than we had expected.” Turns out, my twenty minute surgery turned into an hour and a half long surgery. When my knee was opened for the scope, Dr. Huntsman discovered that my knee was well on its way to be completely ruined. When I had grown, my bones had grown twisted—the femur had grown twisted towards the inside, and the tibia had grown twisted outwards; thus, my knee didn’t line up. Because of this, my kneecap was slanted, and not in the correct position. My kneecap had been rubbing on my bones my entire life which caused me a considerable amount of knee pain—the pain that for years my coaches thought I had been faking. The pain that was the reason my coaches told me to suck it up and play anyways. The back of my kneecap was full of fissures, and because of the injury I sustained in January, all of my ligaments and tendons were stretched out. Dr. Huntsman just had to think on the spot, and he asked my parents if he could perform a little other procedure that he thought may help my knee. My parents agreed to it, and he continued the surgery. I ended up having the ligament to the left side of my knee cut so that it would hopefully release the tension and allow my kneecap to move into the correct position. This was called a lateral release. He also reshaped the back of my knee cap to help save as much of it as he could.
My recovery time went from three weeks to up to a year. My hopes for volleyball that year were dashed, and basketball was iffy. Track was now out of the question…for a second year in a row. I was quite devastated, but I still had a chance! My leg was in a gigantic brace that covered my entire leg. It was blue with white velcro on it! I also needed crutches for at least six weeks…meaning I would be starting school on crutches.
The following year I spent going to countless doctor and physical therapy appointments. It felt like every new appointment with Dr. Huntsman, something wouldn’t be going right. Because of my disease, I wasn’t healing correctly, nor was I healing quickly at all. My muscle in my left leg died and actually fused together. I had to have it broken up, and even had shock therapy. It wasn’t fun at all. My knee was swollen for an entire six months, and it took two months before I could even get my knee in my jeans. I lost 15 pounds, which also meant that none of my clothes fit me anymore.
Finally, it was the beginning of May, and I had one appointment left before I would get released completely for good. I had come so far on the long hard road, and the waiting was almost over. I could almost taste the victory in my mouth. One night, I was writing in my journal about the previous year and all of the experiences I had with my knee, and I suddenly realized how blessed I was, and how selfish I had been the entire trial. I realized that because of the trial with my knee, I had been able to endure the other huge trials that had come my way that year. My knee had made me stronger, strong enough to face my other trials with dignity and trust in the Lord whereas those around me struggled and fell. I realized I had been doing everything wrong. The whole time I had been asking when it could be over and when I could get back to my sports again, when really, I should have been asking, “What lessons are God trying to teach me with this trial?” I felt so horrible that I hadn’t taken advantage of learning very possible thing I could from this trial. I could have learned so much, but instead, I wanted it to be over. I wanted my sports. I suddenly wished I could rewind a year and start over with and optimistic outlook. I wanted to learn the lessons.
I should have been careful what I wished for. Despite the fact that I had only a few days left before my doctor would deem me completely healed, it didn’t turn out the way I had expected. The Saturday before my appointment, I was at a friend’s birthday party playing ninja destruction. Seriously, ninja destruction! Of all the games in the world! Anyways, it came to my turn, and I made my move, only to have my shoe start slipping. I did the splits, and on the way down, I felt my knee pop three times and dislocate. I laid on the floor in excruciating pain—not only physically but the actual mental and emotional pain of realizing that everything I had worked so hard for the past year was now undone. All the tears, pain, doctor appointments, and even surgeries were for nothing. I was back at the beginning. I just wanted to bawl, but of course, I hate people seeing me cry, so I pulled it together and went to Downtown Dance’s annual showcase. By the time that was over, my knee was so swollen I couldn’t get my jeans off when I got home. I walked into my room, still choking back tears, and tried getting them off, but didn’t succeed. I heard my dad come in the door, and it was just the two of us home. He asked me to come to his room, which I did, and he just simply asked me, “How bad is it?”
That’s when I lost it. Completely lost it. I bawled. I let all my emotions that had built up the past year come out. How could I possibly be going through this AGAIN???
I hopped to my room, laid on my bed and cried. Then, I noticed a quote I keep next to my bed that I got in Young Women’s as a Beehive. It’s a simple white paper with the quote on it, and it is matted on a simple black piece of paper. However, despite the simplicity of the presentation of this quote, the words changed my life. It said, “The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company… a church… a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past… we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you… we are in charge of our Attitudes.”
Right then and there, I decided that if I had to go through this a second time, obviously I hadn’t learned the lessons I needed to learn the first time. The Lord had a plan for me, he had tried to teach me once, but I wasn’t humble enough to learn what I needed to. I decided that I would find the good in everything that happened to me, no matter what! It didn’t matter how bad this was going to get, I was going to face everything with a smile so that I could learn the lessons The Lord was trying to teach me. A few nights before, I had been wishing for this, hadn’t I? He gave it to me. I decided those tears I had just shed would be the last tears shed over this. I was getting what I wanted, and I was going to be excited!
I went to my appointment on crutches, with a swollen knee. Dr. Huntsman just shook his head, and was probably equally as devastated as I had been. He checked my ACL and didn’t feel a tear, so we set up another MRI later in the week. Until then, I was to stay off my knee.
I went to the MRI, and a few days later at my appointment, we discussed the results. I hadn’t torn anything, but I had bruised my entire knee on the inside. My entire knee had dislocated because my initial injury had stretched out all of my ligaments and tendons which is why my knee wouldn’t stay in place. I needed surgery to fix it, but I was given three choices on which surgery I wanted—each with their own risks. First, I could have the same surgery I had previously had, only this time the tendon on the inside of my leg would be tightened. We could give that another year and see if it worked, but there is a good chance my knee would dislocate again. Second option was to do an extensive surgery—this would include a scope, a proximal patellar realignment, a tibia tubercle, a lateral release, so basically, it was the same surgery as option #1, only this time my tibia would be cut in half and relocated so that it aligned my knee cap. Option #3 was to take the most protective stance by sending me to Primary Children’s hospital and have rods put up my entire leg and twisted to that my bones would be aligned. The only problem with that one was that is was extremely hard on the patient, and we didn’t know if I would need to take those extra measures. I prayed about it constantly, and my parents left the decision up to me. I ultimately chose choice #2.
A week later, I was headed back to the hospital for surgery, but this time without the knots in my stomach. I had come to terms with myself that everything was going to turn out just fine. There would be no surprises this time. My surgery was initially scheduled for around noon, so I had stopped eating and drinking at 8 the night before. Then, the hospital called again to change to1:00, then a third time to 2:00. By the time I had been wheeled back into the operating room, it was 4:00, and I was extremely hungry and thirsty. It had been almost 24 hours without anything, and I was about to undergo a major surgery. It took a lot more medication than normal to get my body to finally react and go completely under anesthetic.
The surgery itself went perfectly. With all of the risks that had existed with this complete reconstruction of my knee, not a single thing went wrong. However, when I woke up, I was introduced to my new leg that was now held together by metal, as it was extended up into the air causing me excruciating pain as the doctor twisted my freshly broken tibia. Just the sight of my doctor and three nurses each holding my leg up as they rewrapped it, I knew something bad was going on. I hadn’t seen my doctor at all the last time I had surgery. I soon learned that the blood was not flowing in my leg, which then turned into one complication after another.
Because my leg wasn’t properly circulating, every few minutes, a nurse had to come stick her freezing finger down the bandage on my foot to feel for a pulse. Each time she did that, it woke me up. By this time, I was ready to go home. It was getting extremely late, and I wanted to sleep.
During my surgery, I had a pump inserted in my leg to drain out the excess fluids to prevent as much swelling as possible. For some reason, the pump wasn’t pumping any fluids out of my leg, and the nurses and my doctor were all very nervous about it. They kept trying, but nothing was working. Finally, they had to stop because they couldn’t do anything to fix it.
Finally, long after the rest of the hospital floor was cleared because the patients had all been sent home, the nurses felt I was stable enough for it to be my turn to go home and recover in the comfort of my own bed. One by one the monitors came off my skin, and the feeling of security that I was finally getting to go home was overwhelming me. My mom was sent to get the car, and the nurse took out the IV, which they had saved for the last line connecting my body to a machine, in case we had another emergency where I would be needing that life line. With one nurse on my right and two on my left, we started the slow and excruciating process of transferring me into my wheelchair, but something didn’t seem right.
“I’m really dizzy.” I’m not exactly sure how the words escaped my lips, but miraculously, I was able to get the nurse’s attention and tell her to stop moving me. I was extremely dizzy, and it wasn’t going away. “Take deep breaths. Just take deep breaths,” were the instructions they all gave me, reassuring me that in a few short moments, it would pass. However, it didn’t pass. First came the urge to throw up, followed by the slow loss of hearing, then my loss of sight, and eventually I lost all control of my entire body. No matter how many times I tried to move, open my eyes, or even scream, my body wouldn’t listen. I could only slightly feel what was going on around me, until that too, faded. No matter how hard I fought, I was losing the battle and couldn’t hold on any longer. I was slipping away. The last thing I remember was the rushing of cold air against my skin as the nurse’s rushed about the room scrambling to hook up monitors to my now unresponsive body.
Just when I thought my battle was over forever, there came this little voice out of nowhere, but somewhere inside of me that said, “Okay, Alice, you have to do this. You have to pull through. You can do this.” After about fifteen minutes, I could start to faintly hear the beeping of machines, the squeezing of my left arm as my blood pressure was taken, and the the cold air blowing against my bare shoulders from my jacket being gone and the fan now blowing on me. I felt the familiar tap on my arm, and the words IV come out of the nurses mouth. I suddenly clued into what was going on, and I opened my eyes to see another IV inches from my skin when I almost yelled, “I don’t want another IV. Please.” The nurse stopped in her tracks, looked at me, and smiled. They were all so relieved that I had made it! I noticed my Mom standing at the doorway looking extremely nervous. Turns out, someone was sent to get my Mom in case something happened, and I didn’t make it.
I had to spend another hour or so in the hospital to double check that I was once again stable enough to go home. Even to this day, we aren’t sure what caused me to go unconscious, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I had no food or liquid for 24 hours. The hospital gave me a bunch of alcohol wipes to take because they said those helped with queasiness, and they also gave me a ‘smelly’ which was a little plastic container that almost looked like a butter packet, but it had spices in it that I was supposed to smell if I began to feel like I would pass out again. With those in hand, I finally went home and was able to sleep through the night.
I woke up super queasy, and I couldn’t get out of bed to save my life. I was super sensitive to the light, as well as any noise or movement. I just had to lay motionless in my bed with a towel over my eyes. Any movement caused me to throw up, and my body refused to keep any food down. I figured it was my medication since the medication from the first surgery made me throw up as well. I begged my Mom to stop making me take it, but she told me that I needed to take it, or I wouldn’t be able to take the pain. The next four days were probably the longest, hardest days of my entire life. I was in so much pain, both from my leg and from the effects of my medication. I couldn’t sleep because I would throw up so often, I couldn’t move because I would get queasy, and I couldn’t even get out of bed because I would pass out. On top of that, I started having hallucinations. I kept thinking that there was a baby in my room that wouldn’t stop crying, and no matter how many times I told the baby to stop crying, it wouldn’t. Looking back, those few days all felt like a blur. A horrible nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from.
Then, I finally convinced my mom to not make me take the medication anymore, and only a few short hours later, I felt a thousand times better. I was able to sit up in bed, turn my light on, and even make it out of bed for a few minutes before having to sit down. I kept my first meal down that Sunday night. It was beginning to look like I was getting to be somewhat normal.
That is, until the next morning. I woke up and when I got up, the left side of my calf muscle was hurting really bad. When I would stand up to go somewhere else, the pressure my brace put on it was pretty uncomfortable, and by Wednesday morning, the left side of my lower leg was black and excruciating. I couldn’t even stand to touch it. It eventually grew into what looked like a tumor on the side of my leg. It was there for about two weeks, and then slowly, it faded. I later learned that the fluid that was suppose to drain, but didn’t, got trapped there and caused the black bruise.
The brace that I was in covered my leg from the top all the way to my ankle, and it prevented my knee from bending. After six weeks, I was able to move it 30 degrees, then the following two weeks, I could move it 30 more and so on. I had started physical therapy by this time, and it was hurting pretty bad. My circulation disease also causes my body to swell a lot, and the scar tissue I have grows very thick, very quickly. Because of this, my scar tissue was so bad that it wasn’t allowing my knee to bend at all. I would go to hours of physical therapy as well as do my own exercises at home to try and break the scar tissue, but no matter how many tears I shed or how bad it hurt, nothing was working. After a few weeks of no progess, my doctor sent me to the hospital for an emergency procedure to break my scar tissue. I was sent back to the operating room where I was put under anesthetic, and pressure was put on my leg until the tissue tore. I woke up after the procedure, and it was the most painful wake-up I have ever had from a surgery. Normally, numbing medication is put into my knee to control the pain for the first two or three days, but I had none of that in my leg at that time. It is the first time I cried since I hurt myself again in May—with the exception of happy tears I shed when I received flowers from my two dear Aunts and wonderful Grandma to wish me a quick recovery.
I had the procedure done at 8:30 on August 15, 2011, and by 8:00 the next morning, I was in the Physical Therapy Office to start my exercises in order to prevent my scar tissue from building back up. Literally, it had been less than 12 hours between my procedure and physical therapy, and by the time I arrived at PT, my scar tissue had built up so hard and thick, that my leg was stuck. Again. It was like I hadn’t even had the procedure. I saw my doctor the following week, and he was very sad to learn that my leg still wasn’t responding. He said, “Okay, I am giving you two more weeks. If you don’t have at least 90 degrees of motion, we will do another emergency procedure. I decided at that moment that I would not be having another procedure, and I continued on with my appointments and exercises for the next week, only to be extremely discouraged to find out that once again, no progress was made. I internally decided that I was done trying. I refused to go through the pain, time, effort, and money if I was getting nowhere. I figured that I was just meant to have this procedure again.
I hadn’t told anyone that I had stopped except for my cousin, Roger, who was on a mission. Two days before my appointment, my dad asked if I would like a blessing, and I said yes. My dad asked my older brother, Sam, if he would like to give the blessing since he had just been given the Melchizedek Priesthood. He agreed to it, and gave me the blessing. The first words out of his mouth were, “Alice, you must do your part in order for the Lord to do his part.” Sam had no idea that I had stopped, so there was no other place this direction could have come from than straight from God. Right then and there, I realized that I needed to start my therapy and exercises back up, and it would all work out the way it was meant to. I did just that, and Tuesday morning, I went to physical therapy one last time before my appointment, and just as I had suspected, there wasn’t even a single degree more of motion. I packed my bag for the hospital and headed to Dr. Huntsman’s office. He came in, checked my leg, and confirmed that I would be having a procedure that night. We filled out the needed paperwork, and as Dr. Huntsman was leaving the room, he turned around and said, “Hold on. I have a feeling that I need to check it one last time.” I laid down on the bed, and he bent my leg, and it kept bending and bending until my calf muscle touched the back of my leg, too. My leg miraculously had full motion. I started bawling, and so did my mom. Instead of leaving with a hospital note, I left with a six-week release from my doctor allowing me to play six weeks of school volleyball.
At physical therapy, we started shock therapy immediately to prevent my muscle from fusing together again, and at first, the E-Stem wasn’t too bad. But then, it wasn’t working, so my Physical Therapist, Sadie, tried Russian E-Stem, which is shock therapy so intense that you can literally watch your muscle contract and your leg shoots in the air. It’s truly excruciating. To put it in perspective, I had a substitute Physical Therapist named Zach who was instructed to do Russian E-Stem on me. He told me that he had done it to himself to see what it felt like. Zach said, “Please tell me that you don’t go past level 29 because I got to that, and I was screaming from the pain, so I stopped it.” I looked at this grown man that I viewed as very tough and said, “Seriously? Sadie makes me go to level 41.”
The following months were a very easy recovery, other than the intense physical therapy appointments that I had. I couldn’t complain about anything else. On December 30, 2011, I went to the hospital for one last surgery—probably the easiest of them all. The surgery was simply to clean out my knee and remove the four-pronged staple and screw. Other than the 15 different tries and four different spots it took to get the IV in, the surgery and recovery went flawless. I wasn’t allowed to jump for six weeks to ensure that the hole from the screw would heal and not break.
Even though my knee is doing well, I have had quite some concern for the soft tissue in my body. Currently, I am undergoing extensive testing every six month to find a reason behind why the soft tissue in my body breaks, stretches, and doesn’t heal on its own. So far, no solution has been found, but I am confident that we will reach a diagnosis one day.
To say that what I went through was easy would be a complete lie. It was extremely difficult and heartbreaking, but so worth it. It is still hard to walk onto a basketball or volleyball court and not be as good as I was before the injury. It was extremely difficult for me to be able to come back to track this year and not even reach 14’ in the long jump. I never reached my goal of beating the school record, nor am I able to dunk a basketball. I am also nowhere near being the hardest middle hitter ANYWHERE, but that is okay. I learned way more from not achieving any of those things than I would have from achieving any of them.
Even to this day, my knees do great! My left leg gives me a little grief when it is bent for too long, or if I walk uphill too much, but I can’t complain. I love life now, and this entire experience strengthened not only me as a person, but also my testimony and the relationship that I have with my Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know that I can accomplish anything, and I truly do trust the Lord with my life. I trust that everything happens for a reason, and that I will never be given a trial that I can’t handle. I KNOW that. I am forever grateful for this trial, and now I look at life with an optimistic outlook, and I couldn’t love it more. Whenever I have a new trial, I get really excited because it means it’s time for me to grow more!
Thank you so much! You will never know how much that means to me.