Momentum

My knee felt loose.

​

Walking towards the school track for PE, it creaked with every step. Lifting my leg up bent it like a rusted door hinge, and putting it down became another step on rotted wooden boards of a pier.

 

I strode beside my classmates as they rushed to class, fast long steps while they jogged past me. One by one, they flocked to the grassy field that approached me too slowly, until I’m the last to arrive, awkwardly manoeuvring into a cross-legged position while Mrs Lim continued issuing instructions.

 

When the pink sheet was passed out, my hand reached out automatically to receive it as I gazed at the long, rough span of red. 2.4km. 6 rounds, 18 minutes.

 

2 months of gym walls. 2 months of leg workouts. 2 months of running until knees ached, to prove to myself that I could run, I can run, just like I did before–

2.4km, and 18 minutes. With the hours I ran on the treadmill, I should be able to clear it.

 

I have to.

​

I quickly removed my left shoe, extending my leg. Stretch the first knee guard over tanned skin, shoes on, then wrap a second knee guard on top of the first. Fit it snug, then slap on the velcro.

I stood up to test the fit. Bending my knee slowly, the muscles strain the longer I held them. No creaky feeling though —

it was tight enough.

 

My class was abuzz with chatter. Friends grouped up, limbs stretched, exclamations of ‘Good luck!’ and ‘Jiayou!’ thrown around. Nicole suggested we run together again, like we did for practice runs. Runs I fell out for, 3 rounds in. It was motivation, running with someone else, but…

“Is it okay if I run by myself?” I asked. Perhaps it was my expression. Perhaps Nicole just knew it wasn’t a question for her. She merely smiled, giving me one firm nod.

Mrs Lim’s voice boomed. We were all queued up now, runner tags pinned to our shirts. This was it. 

 

“Everyone!”

 

I flexed my fingers, bouncing up and down on my toes. 

 

“Your time starts now!”

 

The exhilaration that flooded my veins never got old. Wind rushing against my face, blood pulsing through every limb, heartbeats palpable with the steady thumps of freedom… Almost a full year of struggling to walk, let alone run, would make even those who despise running long to jog for just a moment.

2 rounds in, and the part I was dreading began to creep up on me. After exhilaration, came the hardest part: the exertion. 

 

My left knee began to creak again, calves beginning to burn as sweat stuck to my skin uncomfortably. My lungs gasped into overtime as they worked to get enough oxygen. Noon had now overpowered the breeze’s chill, heat beating down on us harshly.

 

I was certain my stamina could carry me through the six rounds — swimming was part of my physiotherapy, which I had done laps of till exhaustion. My knee, however, was a different story.

In the third round, my kneecap was trembling in place, surrounded by the loose ligament, which had caused–

 

I bit my lip and kept running. I would usually give up by the fourth lap, when the general discomfort became pain. But I had to complete this. 2 months of training, just for this moment. I could not give up.

 

The burn of exertion swallowed my legs from below my knees. The sweat and heat were nigh unbearable, but I had to keep pushing, I just had to–

 

Sharp, searing pain. I nearly collapsed, stumbling off the track and onto the field, hopping on one leg before I ungracefully flopped onto the grass. 

 

I quickly ripped off the velcro. My knee pulsed, knife-sharp and unrelenting as storm-raised waves crashing into hulls. Just like it did when I first dislocated it, when the kneecap had popped in and out from the side, skin red and swollen and throbbing–

 

Before I knew it, I found myself in the General Office, escorted there by Mrs Lim herself. She passed me an ice pack, instructed me to remove all my knee guards and ice the swollen skin, before disappearing further into the office. 

The clock behind me ticked endlessly, seconds and minutes blurring into each other, until Mrs Lim returned, her phone and a signed slip in hand. She passed over her phone, letting me call my parents. 

When the line went dead, instead of leaving like I thought she would, Mrs Lim sat down beside me and looked over my knee.

 

“Did it hurt just now?” she questioned, the silence broken so abruptly my body decided to run on autopilot.

“Yes.” Oh, why did I say yes?

“Then why didn’t you stop?”

 

I bit my lip, twiddling my thumbs as I muttered, “I wanted to clear NAPFA.”

Mrs Lim hummed, which somehow felt like a scolding in and of itself. I shrunk into my seat, pressing the ice pack a little harder to let the cold pinch my body for letting my mouth run and not my legs.

 

“It happened last year, right?” Mrs Lim inquired again. Not trusting myself to not drill holes into my sinking boat, I simply nodded.

 

“1 year ago, you dislocated your knee. Now, you ran almost 5 rounds, but got it injured again. If you really dislocated it again, how long more until you run 6 rounds?”

 

The frontdesk staff arrived then with my worried parents in tow. Seeing their brows furrowed, faces creased in concern as my mother fussed over me and my father drove us to the hospital, guilt sank into my bones, thoughts churning from Mrs Lim’s words.

 

The hospital check-up was a blur — registration, triage, x-rays, review, another session — rinse and repeat. The doctors told me that no re-injury occurred, it was merely just a strain. 

 

“You pushed yourself a bit too hard,” one of them had said, “try to go easy on yourself, okay?” Mrs Lim’s words rang in my mind again.

 

Was I really pushing too hard? I only wanted to return to how life was before, to a time when running was just as easy as talking. That required a lot of effort to heal faster, right?

 

I was silent on the car ride back. I was scrolling through the Internet, trying to see what others who had dislocation injuries too had said online.

‘...slowly build it back up, otherwise…’

‘...doesn’t feel the same anymore…”

…Maybe I had been pushing it? The idea that my knee would still feel loose, though, brought forth another surge of unease. Did that mean I will never be able to run painlessly again? Was it going to dislocate again?

Would I even be able to fully heal?

 

“Ma,” I called out from the sofa, when we had returned home. She turned around, her full attention turned from the kitchen timer to me, and I suddenly felt embarrassment creep up my spine.

“I… ran almost 5 rounds today. For 2.4.”

I wasn’t quite sure what I had been expecting, but to hear her surprised gasp, followed by the pitter patter of footsteps as she came around, wrapping her arms around me tightly.

“Good job!” she exclaimed, beaming wide, “How long did it take? Must be within 15 minutes, you trained so hard! I got time, you want…”

 

I watched as she spun around, going through the kitchen at the speed only a mother ever could, checking to see if she had enough to cook up another dish for the family. ‘A celebration’, I managed to catch from her ramblings.

I understood, right then and there. To force recovery is to delay it; rushing to the end goal slows one down.

Maybe my knee will never stop giving me grief. As I scarfed down Ma’s cooking, I could not help but smile. I went from being unable to walk painlessly for months, to running almost 2 kilometres, in the span of less than a year. I had made much progress, and I will keep progressing, keep healing, keep running.

 

Maybe my knee will never stop feeling loose. And for the first time, I was perfectly fine with that.