Therapy for my knee

There was no shaman. No masseuse. Alas, physical therapy was held in an average windowless office with the usual protocol. The therapist had friendly pictures of well-adjusted joints lining the bookshelves: bookshelves stocked with a common assortment of self-help books: “Listening to your Inner Meniscus,” “Positive Discipline for the Wayward Patella,” and “When Good Knees Go Bad.” The therapist was warm and welcoming as she ushered my knee to the couch. She lit a candle, dimmed the lights, and we settled onto the long couch with the obligatory box of Kleenex alongside. We waited for the questioning to begin. The therapist opened her notebook, adjusted her glasses, and clicked her pen. She began slowly: “So…” she said, carefully measuring each word, “how long have you..uh...been feeling this way?” We were dumbfounded. Um. Since December 18, we wanted to answer: when one of your colleagues slipped a knife into us and removed a tumor. But we thought that might sound a bit snarky. So silence followed. She tried again with: “Is there a history of this in your family?” Again I knew not what to say. PVNS strikes one in a million people. The likelihood was slim. “On a scale from one to ten, how bad would you say you feel today?” I waited patiently for my knee to respond. The therapist waited, too. Nothing. My knee said nothing. Not a thing. I could only hear the steady rhythm of the second-hand on my watch…tick-tocking, marking each passing, fruitless moment. My knee simply refused to speak. I then realized that therapy for a knee is pointless. I just knew I’d have to find another path toward femero-pateller self-actualization.