10 Dec 2023

I want to be writing about adventures.

About exploring. Scaling mountains and floating through snow.

After all, that’s why I came here, to Chamonix, the mountaineering capitol of Europe.

But when I’m not distracted by work, I’m thinking about my knee.

The first thing I do before I get out of bed is think about my knee. I get up and walk around, and see how my knee feels. Better? The same? Or worse?

I go downstairs for my morning walk and think about if the stairs are causing me any pain.

Every morning I walk to the river. I stroll down the road. Does it feel any more normal than before?

I feel stress when I notice ice. Or don’t notice it and slip a few centimetres. It jolts my brain - did I overextend my knee? Did Ijust undo the days of progress I had made? Am I going to wake up tomorrow stiff and painful again? Fuuuuuck! I knew I should have worn different shoes. I’m mad at myself. As if it would have made any difference on a patch of invisible smooth ice.

I wake up the next day and it’s not worse.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Still, I’m mad at myself for not getting it looked at sooner.

Mad at myself for thinking it was nearly healed.

Mad at myself for the stupid way I injured it in the first place.

Mad at myself for moving to France.

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t moved to France! I knew there was a reason I hated French in school. Nothing good has ever happened in France. Ok, maybe some good things have happened in France. Like every ski trip before I turned 30. But other than that? Nothing.

Ok, maybe the cheap cheese and wine I cook with every night.

But, other than that?

I track my pain level and activity level every day now. Morning, afternoon, and night.