“It is.”

“At least that’s the important one.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, it’s the important one for me.”

“No it’s not.”

As sports fans we feel like we understand injuries. When a player goes down untouched, every single one of us instinctively thinks about those three letters. ACL tears typically end seasons. For us as fans that is all that matters. We don’t measure the severity of injuries by how damaging they are, we measure them by how much time you will miss. An ACL tear costs nine months, a meniscus tear costs six weeks. So obviously an ACL tear is way worse than a meniscus tear.

The ACL has earned such a place in sports that any non-ACL tear is not only treated as a lucky escape, but it’s often presented as good news. You hear words like “only” and “just” in front of “a meniscus tear,” “an MCL strain” or “cartilage damage.”

It’s not just relief, it’s a borderline celebration.

ACL injuries deserve their reputation. They are awful. Unfortunately I’m speaking from experience. Eight years ago I tore my left ACL and meniscus. It took 22 months in total before I was healthy again. Four years ago I tore my right ACL, MCL and meniscus. Again, it took 22 months. But when I finished rehab I was fully healthy for all intents and purposes.

My ACLs are still fine today. They disrupted four years of my life but the ligaments themselves are now as effective as ever. The problem is everything else.

The worst part of an ACL tear isn’t always the ACL itself. ACL tears are rarely clean, the action that causes the tear generally causes a lot more damage in the knee. You have a variety of other ligaments in your knee and nerves, but you also have two forms of cartilage. You have a softer sock absorber that fits between the two primary bones, that’s the meniscus. And you have a harder sheet that covers the bones themselves, that’s the articular cartilage. When I tore my ACLs I damaged each meniscus. Then, 12 months ago my left knee buckled again and that was when I found myself in my surgeon’s office again.

“No it’s not.”

That shocked me. I walked into the room expecting that worst case scenario was another ACL tear. Instead, I now knew my ACL was fine but the tone of the conversation was still dour. He was silent for a few moments before delivering a heavy combination that put me into shock.

“Sports are done for you [That was a hard punch in the face]. You have arthritis in your knee and your meniscus is badly torn. I’d normally book you in to replace the knee [to what now???] but I don’t replace the knees of 25-year olds. In six months you won’t be able to walk. [I just got hit with a sofa-sized steel chair from behind.]”

That is where he decided to stop talking. On THAT sentence. In six months you won’t be able to walk. I was having a hard enough time swallowing the initial punch about sports, not being able to walk???

Consciously I departed the room at that point. When I returned a few minutes later, my surgeon wasn’t talking. He was rapidly reading notes and clicking through MRI images. He had always been a stoic figure so it was startling to see him so animated. He didn’t look up when he next spoke.

“I think you’ll qualify.”

He must have been talking about something while I zoned out. I had no idea what I was qualifying for at this point. All I knew was it definitely wouldn’t be the Olympics.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t at that point. I simply waited for him to elaborate further. Eventually he did something I had never seen him do in the eight years I had been dealing with him. He smiled. He smiled and said a simple sentence.

“I think you’re going to be one of the lucky ones.”

10 months have passed since that day and you’d be hard pressed to call anything about this lucky. Six months ago walking started to be painful. It gradually got worse to the point that four or five months ago I reached a point where I could walk for 30 minutes once every three days. My knee is no longer functional but at least it’s permanently painful!

Despite all this, my surgeon was right. I am one of the lucky ones and I did qualify.

I qualified for a meniscus transplant. At least, that’s what I initially qualified for. Since being referred to a specialist my meniscus transplant has evolved into a meniscus and cartilage transplant, the meniscus will come from a donor and the articular cartilage will be moved from another area of the bone. I will also have my femur purposely broken to address a realignment issue. It’s a pretty big operation but most who suffer severe cartilage damage at a young age don’t get this opportunity. Most have to either live with it or wait until they can get a full knee replacement. Neither is a good option.

The complications with my particular surgery will have me travelling for appointments and other procedures over the next two months. That is why I decided to leave my job this week.

Today’s appointment is the first and that means making weight.

I weigh about 207 right now. When I had surgery in August I weighed 240. It’s part of what happens when you can’t exercise anymore and have nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself in a room that is in close proximity to a fridge full of food. It doesn’t help when you’re spending your fifth of eight years living with a debilitating injury. The discipline and optimism you previously had gets replaced by apathy and despair.

That was the biggest challenge of the past six months. Being largely housebound means missing out on pretty much everything. You don’t talk to people, except for twitter. You don’t get to play sports or even go to games. Any gym work you do is isolated and limited. You can’t even properly go out on weekends or over holidays for fear of doing further damage.

You just sit at home, watching the same tv shows you’ve seen 10,000 times before. Waiting for your brain to eat itself from boredom.

I’m kind of glad I’ve lived like this for a while. It’s made me a lot more aware of people who are alone and how much of a struggle life can be living that way. It’s taught me that the smallest interactions can matter a lot more to someone else than they do to you, without you ever knowing it. Isolation can erode your self-esteem and make things that were previously easy that much more difficult.

Fortunately I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve had to deal with this for six months and likely won’t have to deal with it for more than six more. At that point I’ll essentially be back to 100 percent. I won’t ever play sports again but I’ll be able to walk. Lots of people don’t get that chance. Lots of people live some variation of this life for decades.

We can’t do much for them, but from my experience, the small things do a lot more than you’d think.