Sometimes a sore spot is just a sore spot. Sometimes denial is your worst enemy.

Between August and October of 2014, the insidious cancer was winning the ‘Where’s Waldo’ battle. When my husband eventually went to see his Doctor, she made referrals for an x-ray and physiotherapy. 

An x-ray was taken of the knee, and only the knee. It showed some arthritis, but nothing out of the ordinary for a man of his age and running habits.

His Doctor prescribed Naproxen, an anti-inflammatory.  My husband cancelled the referral to physiotherapy, thinking the medication would be sufficient.  

Shortly after this, the pain was such that he asked to be taken to emergency on a beautiful sunny Sunday. To get him from the car into the hospital, we needed a wheel chair. We couldn’t resist joking about the situation and we crossed the busy emergency room laughing way too hard to be considered appropriate, let alone polite. They must have thought we were faking it.

We were seen by two residents and I noticed with wry amusement they were flirting with each other. During the examination, one resident placed both her thumbs above James’ knee and gently pushed.

If this had been a cartoon, there would have been a James-sized cutout through the ceiling. Apparently that gentle pressure hurt. A lot.

We were sent home with a recommendation to continue taking the Naproxen and re-instate the physiotherapy referral. “It is most likely a torn miniscus.” As we were exiting the room, the flirting resumed.

Cancer-Waldo won another round.

As a wife, my role in all this was difficult. I started out with wifely advice and well intentioned suggestions. As I said last week we had been planning a vacation and a knee injury is not welcome on a motorcycle. Tensions were building between us. I will admit, rightly or wrongly, I got to the point where I would leave the room whenever he said, “It’s a little better today.” I chose to support any decisions he made, but I stopped offering any more suggestions. Your knee, not mine. Stubborn versus stubborn.

Finally, one day while I was at work, James fell walking across the kitchen floor. His leg could not support him. He hauled himself over to the couch and stayed there.

When I came home he could not stand but he was not writhing in pain either. In my mind, I judged the distance from the couch to the car and knew we could not manage that alone. Again, it was his knee and I would support his choices. He chose to wait and see how it was in the morning. So he slept on the couch.

There was no change overnight but we had to do something. I suggested he stand and try to walk. After a few steps he retreated back to the couch. He put his left leg up first and then reached with both hands to pull up his right leg. 

We both heard the snap.

If you’ve never heard a bone break, it is a dull noise but a sickening sound.

All arguments and resistance went out the window. 

Calling 911 is both a stressor and a relief all at once. Off he went on the stretcher.

Stay safe everyone.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger.  Temporarily, this blog will be focussed on telling our cancer story. Please share if you know someone who may benefit. Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.