I ambled across the street from the house to the collection of mailboxes planted at the center of our neighborhood. A car pulled up alongside the curb and stopped, its driver ostensibly intent on gathering his or her mail as well. Out of the driver’s seat climbed Tony, a local septuagenarian I’ve passed on plenty of evening walks with his Toto-sized canine companion.

As I approached, he offered not a greeting but an observation that I was moving with a slight limp. “Yeah,” I replied, sharing what I had just learned from the orthopedist an hour ago, to which he responded not with sympathy but a wiggle of his waist. “I just got a new hip. Welcome to aging!” I remarked to this unwelcome reply that this year, my 47th, is shaping out to be the year my body has begun to inform me wordlessly of its high mileage and the mortal fact that I can no longer maneuver it as if it just drove off the lot. “That’s when it happened for me!” he expressed excitedly, leaving me with the stark realization that I had now reached an age when one’s ailments are an acceptable topic of small talk.

Four weeks earlier, my son’s final soccer practice offered parents the opportunity to face-off in a friendly game versus their grade-school charges. I willingly lined up on the field, in spite of the fact I was 40 pounds and several years removed from such rigorous physical activity. No matter, I thought, as I pushed my flabby fortysomething physique to play as if a carefree, nimble twentysomething. When my labored breathing between points was ignored as a warning I ought to settle down and act my age, 20 minutes into the game—a game the parents were shamelessly dominating, I might add—my body forced a stop to this foolish nonsense.

As I attempted to juke right with the ball, pushing off with my left leg, a loud “POP!” issued from my left knee, and I collapsed to the ground in excruciating pain. Play continued to swirl around me, though a couple of concerned fellow parents helped me limp to the edge of the field to wait out what was hopefully nothing more than something akin to cracking one’s knuckles. After a few patient minutes, I attempted to stand with my right leg and try a few steps. As I placed my weight on my left leg, however, my knee joint now felt unsupported and preferred to move unnaturally in almost any direction except for the correct one, which was accompanied by the same agonizing pain I felt at the moment something, I now surmised, had snapped like an overextended rubber band, something I couldn’t yet name that was now either entirely missing or out of place.

X-rays conducted shortly thereafter that evening at the nearby strip-center ER, to which I struggled to drive myself using my good right leg, yielded no break, and I was advised to visit my primary care physician the following day to see about the possibility of a MRI. I’ll spare the banal and frustrating saga of struggling with insurance for three weeks to agree to cover the cost of the scan. Suffice it to say that once done, a short visit thereafter with the orthopedist, preceding my chat with neighbor Tony, yielded results that confirmed what my wife had correctly suspected at the moment of injury: a fully torn ACL.

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The anterior cruciate ligament is a small, tough, flexible band of tissue whose sole purpose is to keep the knee stable and is situated between the bottom of the femur and top of the tibia. An overextensive twist of the joint during strenuous physical activity is all it can take to snap it, especially if the surrounding muscles and tissues are not strong enough to support the movement. It’s one of the most common athletic injuries, especially in sports that involve sudden changes in motion. I myself was first made aware of it several years ago while playing weekly games of ultimate frisbee with friends, many of whom were carried off the field for a full or partial tear of the ligament, my wife included.

Depending on one’s lifestyle, there are at least a couple of treatment options available. If you don’t plan on regularly putting stress on your knees for the remainder of your life on, say, a competitive field of play, you can likely live out your days well enough with a regimen of physical therapy to build up strength around the joint, especially if it’s only a partial tear, such as that sustained by my wife, who has since been able to successfully participate in a number of half marathons. Or, you can opt for surgery not to repair but to reconstruct the ligament with tissue harvested from another part of your leg or from a cadaver. The choice is yours, but, especially with a full tear, surgery is a favorable option in order to stave off osteoarthritis that is likely to develop at an accelerated rate due to stress placed upon the remaining cartilage.

After the injury and prior to treatment, if you’re careful, you eventually learn how to maneuver and walk relatively safely without further pain, though certain movements are out of the question, especially those aforementioned sudden changes in direction, especially lateral. While pondering the options there in the exam room with the orthopedist, I explained that there had been at least half a dozen times since the injury when I was brought to the ground from the pain due to what before should have been typical motion. One of those was on a long walk with our dog, an otherwise normal, everyday sort of activity.

Beaux and I made our way on this particular day to the local Petsmart for a treat to carry home for him. I had moved almost perfectly and painlessly for the distance, until, that is, we approached the store. As we walked across the parking lot, my phone slipped out of my hand and fell on the pavement behind me. As I doubled back suddenly to reach down for it, pain shot through my joint and I fell to the cold, solid concrete. I sat immobilized and grimacing as I gripped my leg, waiting for the discomfort to subside, dangerously in the way of any traffic that might decide to pass through the lot. After a minute or two, I found the strength to stand with my good leg, hobbled into the store to complete the intended purchase, and then slowly and deliberately made the trek home. Half a dozen similar incidents since the injury sounded far too many to the orthopedist, and after a brief conversation with my wife, it was decided we would schedule the surgery.

I have (knock on wood) been fortunate enough to have avoided heretofore the necessity of lying on a surgeon’s table, though I vaguely recall in my scattered, incomplete memory as not more than a toddler a brief stay in the hospital to cauterize vessels in my nose due to frequent nosebleeds. Beyond that, I have only been a visitor, never a patient subject to the scalpel. I’ve long expected my day would come along with age, however, though uncertain of how or for what ailment(s). While the news might leave most anxious or disconcerted, I found myself oddly anticipating the new experience. I recall writer and humorist David Sedaris once remarked regarding a personal incident that could have been perceived in an unfortunate light that, well, at least he had something to write about. No experience is wasted on a story worth telling later.

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Overnight Friday evening visits to my grandparents, while they still lived independently in the blue-collar town of Angleton, unofficially consisted of at least a handful of things: popcorn, Diet Pepsi, and the investigative news program 20/20, hosted at the time by Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters. One of the show’s many stories that has remained with me all of these years reported the horror endured by those who went under the knife only to become conscious during the procedure, physically paralyzed by anesthesia and unable to alert their OR attendants of the sudden, undesired awareness of their bodies being sliced and opened. It’s a phenomenon reported occasionally even today though not experienced generally by the mass of surgical patients. I’ve long stowed away this unique fear, expecting it to surface when once I would require surgery myself.

After 6 weeks, the day arrived. I was remarkably not anxious for such a first as this and had second thoughts only due to the fact that I had learned over the duration to walk on it relatively normally now without any pain or discomfort, though I was reminded on occasion of its instability. There are those, the orthopedist mentioned, who opt out of surgery and instead strengthen the muscles around it and avoid what would be considered athletic activity. The risk, however, is developing osteoarthritis sooner than most without the support of the ACL in the joint. The way I saw it, I was going to have to strengthen those muscles and avoid such activity regardless of either option, so might as well put off degeneration for as long as I can and endure the recovery period post-surgery. Additionally, the adult version of myself tends to appreciate and value most new experiences, a fact as far from my younger self’s character as one could be. I rarely dread even a jury summons as others do and instead look forward to engaging in a part of the process and having a story to tell.

The morning began as it always does, waking myself and our middle and youngest kids up at 5:30 am. Our oldest received her license and a car a few months ago and manages herself from sunup to sundown for the most part now, which has been an invaluable help to me especially. Our youngest relishes arriving at 6:45 for what’s known as “early care” at his school so he can play and interact with friends before the actual school day begins, and I’ve been more than accommodating since it provides me with more time to get things done around the house, though Jenny is able on most days to get him there before she heads to work. Our middle was offered the manager job on her school basketball team, a position which is right up her alley and allows her to interact with most of her friends without the rigorous physhcal regimen of players, though it does expect her to arrive at 6:30 just like everyone else. The dog eagerly travels with us for drop off and typically can’t hide his eagerness, racing through the back gate and leaping into the backseat as soon as I remotely open the minivan door. Today, he’ll be at the local kennel for doggy daycare, and once he realizes it a few minutes later as we drive up after getting Dezira to practice, it’s consumes all of his effort not to leap out of the van window from the parking lot. He once excitedly and without warning bolted out of my front door after I stepped out, though I had no reason to fear him escaping into neighborhoods beyond. He patiently waited leashless at the kennel door for me to open it and begin his own day with the two things he loves most in life, in no particular order: people and other dogs.

After dropping the dog off, it was a return trip home for an Uber on the way to deposit me at the medical center. My wife would join me soon after in our well-traveled 200K+ mile minivan after finishing a couple of urgent work meetings. Though simply starting it now is a risky affair, bearing a striking resemblance to the sound of an elderly gentleman struggling out of bed while coughing and clearing his lungs in the morning, it would be much easier for me to slide into, we decided, post-surgery than her sleek new sedan. In 5 minutes time arrived the driver, an aged man who had immigrated to the area several years ago from Pakistan, where he was employed with their version of the Federal Reserve. Much of his extended family had moved here many years previously and resided either here or in New Jersey. As he happily answered my questions, though I generally enjoy learning about the lives of these random drivers, I observed that perhaps a casual chat wasn’t the best idea as he carelessly blew through at least one red light, failed to signal lane changes, and seemed distractedly to stay far under the speed limit when it wasn’t advisable to do so, earning a honk or two from other harried morning drivers. I might lose my life on this short trip to surgery, I thought, but at least, I guess, a couple of strangers had a pleasant conversation on the way.

We made it in one piece, thankfully, to die another day, and I wished him well as I shut the door and walked into the surgical center. Registration, paperwork, and copay completed, I lingered alone with strangers, trying not to think about food as my stomach begged for it. “The Today Show” reported on the waiting room television on each U.S. State’s most popular Christmas movie and an app that lulls listeners to sleep as an AI Jimmy Stewart reads you a Christmas story. Soon enough my name was called, and I headed through the double-doors for prep.

A few years ago I took the time to read “The Butchering Art,” by Lindsey Fitzharris. If ever there was a reason to be grateful for mankind’s innovations, I’d gladly set aside any and all of them involving personal technology or entertaining distractions for achievements in the field of medicine. Nineteenth century surgical practices, which Fitzharris describes in sufficient detail, were enough to persuade one to avoid the doctor altogether. Hospitals had earned from many the reputation of places where one goes not to receive life-saving treatments but to die. My first experience with surgery would prove to be as far from what the author described, earning my gratitude for all those who have gone before and have suffered for the sake of the improvements we now enjoy. Minimizing pain and discomfort in the preparation and process of surgery is a priority in modern medicine, I’m pleased to say, and any fears I had about everything leading up to and during it were unfounded. Granted, there are many whose ailments are severe enough to have endured a less favorable experience, but by and large, physicians and nurses strive to alleviate the pain associated with “going under the knife.”

I undressed as instructed and did my best to relax in the bed before the nurse returned. After taking vitals, which revealed elevated blood pressure, a fact that had become more common over the year, I was informed about what would be happening in the moments to follow as Jenny, my wife, finally arrived after finishing up details remotely for work. The anesthesiologist paid a visit, indicating how his job would play out with my care, asking if there were any objections to the use of a “nerve block” once administered. I had no reason to refuse, having had no experience with it, and he assured me not to worry about a thing. Jenny was instructed to leave the room soon thereafter and did so once we exchanged affections. Several minutes later the anesthesiologist returned with a large syringe, which he did not then administer, but answered affirmatively when the attending nurse asked if she should get the IV fluid going.

“Do you need any help getting that on?” a different nurse inquired, referring to my shirt. I didn’t recall shutting my eyes even for a moment, but somehow someone else had randomly appeared, my leg was now wrapped and stationary, and the procedure was finished. I felt a little drowsy, as if I had been out, but the transition one feels and is aware of when falling into and rousing from sleep was absent. One second I was awaiting what followed, the next trying to process that it had all passed, as if I had missed it all in a single blink of the eyes. Three hours were, strangely, missing, like a lost item that could not and would never be found again. The time was simply gone.

I got my shirt back on, and I vaguely remember receiving help putting on my shoes, but it didn’t occur to me until the day after that I was unaware how my shorts returned to my waist. Maybe best not to know. In any case, the phenomena of time lost due to anesthesia was fascinating to me, and I now realized why such professionals are respected and paid as well as they are. Their scientific art skillfully removes the trauma and pain from the process. I had nothing to fear after all from the dreadful 20/20 report in my youth of patients becoming conscious during the proceedings. To the contrary, I had knowledge of nothing having actually taken place. Ignorance, in this case, was a kind of anticlimactic bliss.

Recovery, I would learn, is the most unpleasant part of the process. Real, authentic pain would not arrive until day three, when the nerve block, as they called it, would begin to dissipate. My wife had planned to take the kids to church that morning, but my sudden discomfort and consequent challenge making even the short trip to the restroom and back forced them to stay put. The next several days would find me gradually forcing a little more independent movement around the house in my impatience to heal up and get back to responsibilities. Eventually able to run select errands on my own, I would lose count of the number of folks who observed the leg brace and correctly identified it as an ACL injury, commenting on their lack of envy for my recovery.

Officially, four weeks of PT still lie ahead of me as I write. A bookshelf I was constructing for our middle before surgery remains unfinished until I can stand for any length of time on my own. I feel like I’m there now and eager to get it done, but I slept uncharacteristically for 13 hours last night after driving four hours to in-laws and an intense PT session. Under any other circumstances, nothing about these two activities should exhaust anyone, but normal movement can be brutal when a part of you has been cut open and reconstructed.

I was reminded as well why there are those out there, often men, who avoid the doctor as a rule. You may not like what he/she has to say. Since surgery, my resting blood pressure was revealed to be way too high without medication, and a periodic tingle in my ring and pinky finger on my right hand over the last couple years has become almost constant, mirroring something known as ulnar nerve entrapment. These, layered on top of the ACL reconstruction and reading glasses, has made it eminently clear that 2023 will go down as the year the warranty on my personal health expired.

It’s not all bleak, however. I am slowly regaining movement in the knee as I get a little closer everyday to that elusive 90-degree bend. I’m without the brace around the house, which isn’t advisable but I think is pretty good for a little over two weeks out. I’ll be back to movement soon enough, but any aspirations of participating in athletic activities went “poof” when I heard the “pop” on the soccer field.

I heard a friend comment recently that aging is a privilege. I’m sure she’s right, but its onset can feel rudely unannounced. In the meantime, I’m trying to accept what is just the beginning of unwelcome changes to come. Staying off the soccer field is not the worst start.