The New Fleming Journal of Medicine

The first time I tore the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee was right after I graduated college. I had recently moved to Los Angeles—also for the first time—and was playing a lot of basketball by the beach. Then it happened.

I went to see a specialist about it, and before any x-rays or arthroscopy he told me that he didn’t think it was my ACL. Already, I was appalled. He went on to explain that there would have been a lot more swelling (“even some,” he added for prick measure), I would’ve been in a lot more pain, and that I would've been unable to leg press 600 pounds prior to our appointment that afternoon.

Like a torn ACL is really that black and white. Like anything in life is. I hate people who deal only in absolutes. Andre Mendez was right when he told me that there were only two types of people in this world; those who dealt in binary terms, and those who didn’t.

Not only did this “doctor” of “medicine” tell me I was wrong, he even had the audacity to suggest that my habit of self-diagnoses was actually counterproductive. Clearly, he had resorted to not only attacking my judgment, but also me as a person.

It was a sad, desperate display. With people becoming more capable in this world, he saw that his charade was soon to reach an end. In short time he would have to pack up his office, with his stethoscopes and fancy latex gloves, and find a real occupation that doesn’t list Omniscience as part of the job specs.



The Thrilla In Patella


But it didn’t end there. He went on to tell me that my knee was fine. That it was probably just a small sprain and I should ice it for a few days. It was a classic move. The placebic diagnosis. The unscrupulous Act Like Everything Is Okay And It Will Be Mind Over Matter bullshit. It was sickening.

Here I am with a clear tear in my ACL, and he’s telling me I can go right back out onto any sandy basketball court my heart desires. That’s insane.

Now, there have been many people in my life who have simply written me off as a hypochondriac; your standard wolf crier. If this is the case, and you believe there are no wolves, then why are you so afraid to let me pull off the sheep’s clothing?

The truth shall, and will, set you free!

The venerated Washington Post essayist and former pen pal Gene Weingarten expresses it best in his undervalued opus, The Hypochondriac’s Guide to Life. And Death. This book documents—with unrestrained hilarity—his struggles through life with what people would classify as his hypochondria. He lived each day convinced that he had a fatal illness, until one day at the doctor’s office he was told he had contracted an incurable liver disease. At which point he felt a great sense of relief, as his hypochondria was “cured.”

Or was it ever there?

Who's imagining things now, bitch?

Hypochondria? No, sounds more like hypocritical. And does this all ring a little familiar? I think the puritans did something similar back in the day when they tied women to fiery stakes to see if they were incombustible witches, only to be left with a charred corpse and saying to themselves, “well, what do you know.”

So careful who you're calling an alarmist while you're talking on your cell phone standing by a microwave sipping on your Red 40 sports drink. I've got two healthy kidneys and you'll probably be begging for one soon.

Point is I think I tore my ACL again yesterday. I came down on it and I thought I heard something snap, and this morning when I was playing basketball it felt kind of funny. So I did some stretching, and it feels better now.

So that’s my point.

Stretch.

It never hurt nobody.