In 1977, I underwent my first orthopaedic surgery, fully believing that it would also be my last.  Keyhole surgery was in its infancy, so I emerged after a traditional surgical procedure sporting a 10cm scar across my knee which looked strikingly similar to a question mark.  The cartilage in its entirety had been removed from the outer side of the knee joint, and  the answer to the “Why me?!” question was self-evident – I had damaged my knee, most likely due to an overzealous approach to athletics, and had earned myself a scar.  In those days, scars were not considered to be cool or something to be proud of with a heroic or amusing tale attached to them, and my reaction to it was one of deep shame and embarrassment.  I covered it up whenever possible, and have continued to do so ever since.

Following the recuperation period, I was told that all had apparently been successful, or at least as successful as could be expected.  After a few weeks of using a walking stick, I learned to walk independently and finally learned to run again, but now it was purely for fun rather than speed, and the exhilaration I had felt before no longer existed.  I was noticeably slower than before, but still participated in PE lessons and played in school teams, although I was no longer considered physically well enough for anything too strenuous or demanding.  Occasionally, however, the leg would ‘collapse’, but these incidents were rare, and almost always when I was doing something physically strenuous.  I also noticed that ‘high impact’ or sudden movements highlighted the fact that it was now significantly weaker than my other leg, so after a few years, I became  less interested in sports and running, possibly because I’d morphed into a sullen teenager, or perhaps because I was experiencing increased pain within the knee and left leg and had developed a slight limp so was no longer an enjoyable experience.

By my mid-teens, the knee had earned itself its first name: Knaughty Knee, the first of several names I have had for it over the years.  Psychologically, I had begun to disassociate with and even disown it – I now referred to it either with a derogatory name, or it was spoken of passively, using ‘the’ rather than the usual possessive adjective, ‘my’.  Following more pain and consistent problems with it, I was eventually referred to another orthopaedic consultant who informed me that I had developed mild osteoarthritis in my left knee cap.

It was official, I was now a Juvenile Degenerate, my new name for myself.  My knee had also earned itself a new name, Bastard Knee, and I now referred to my left leg as Stupid Leg, as I slowly disassociated myself from both whenever possible.  The “Why Me?!” question had also acquired several somewhat different answers: because the surgery didn’t work?  because that particular surgery was the wrong thing to do?, or because by removing the cartilage, my knee was left wide open to the development of osteoarthritis?  My conscious attitude to this new situation was one of disdain, regarding it all as a rather bad joke; I continued to sneer at my body and regularly made deprecating remarks about it – after all, who needs a leg that works properly anyway, and hey, I’ve got another one and it’s much more co-operative than that stupid left one!  Subconsciously, I was furious.  I had always held consultants and surgeons in high regard, and continue to do so; after all, they possess reams of knowledge I couldn’t even begin to comprehend and skills which I could never acquire.  I wasn’t looking to apportion blame, however, something had gone badly wrong here; rather than resolving the specific issue of dealing with a raggedy cartilage, I appeared to have gained a medical condition which had the potential to be far more damaging and enduring.

I was an unlikely ‘candidate’ for osteoarthritis.  The contributory factors for developing the condition are as follows: genetic predisposition, age and gender, obesity, physical activity levels, joint injury, joint alignment, and abnormal joint shape.  As stated previously, I appeared to have no genetic disposition towards it, and as a woman, my likelihood of developing it before the age of 50 was significantly lower than if I had been male.  The only contributory factor which I appear to have met at this point, was that of joint injury, and the inevitable answer to the “Why me?!” question was now “because I had a surgical procedure which creates more problems than it resolves”.

It is reassuring to know that this particular surgery is no longer practised; interestingly, I can’t even find the correct name for it or details of it online, so presumably medical professionals have realised that it is not simply an inappropriate course of action to take, but it has the potential for creating further, more extensive damage to an individual’s joints.  However, a modified version does still exist; surgery is still undertaken to deal with rogue bits of knee cartilage, but it is restricted to simply trimming away any torn areas and no attempt is made to remove the cartilage in its entirety.

For more information about cartilage damage and NHS care and procedures, click here

I have experienced chronic pain and intermittent reduced mobility resulting from osteoarthritis since childhood.  Four decades and a couple of joint replacements later, the arthritis continues to spread and I have further orthopaedic surgery to look forward to in previously healthy joints.

“Why me?!” is a question which has haunted me for a long time, although in my youth, it pertained simply to considerations of my own sheer carelessness, bad luck and frustration, rather than a more serious consideration of the likelihood of why a particular individual might develop arthritis.

I was born ‘healthy’ with no known physical abnormalities, and was sufficiently fortunate to be born into a family with no history of juvenile arthritic conditions.  I enjoyed sports at school, practised gymnastics and athletics, and had a passion for running, especially 400m sprints;  I loved the freedom, weightlessness and exhilaration that always came with running.

This is the first time I have recorded any of these experiences, and am already amazed at how vivid my memories are.

By the time I was about 9 years old, I began having problems with my left leg; it would ‘collapse’ (as I used to describe it) when I was doing PE, I would find myself sprawled on the ground, there was an intense burning pain inside my knee, and I was unable to stand or walk for several minutes.  These experiences were both painful and humiliating; the intensity of the pain always made me cry, and then I felt really ashamed in front of my classmates, firstly for crying in front of everyone, but also for being unable to stand or walk.  The knee itself was red, hot and very swollen and it took some time before it would straighten again and function normally.  It might then be several days before the next episode.

After several visits to the family doctor, our GP declared that he couldn’t find anything wrong with my knee or my leg (although, of course, it never ‘collapsed’ in his presence) and he suspected that I was lying to gain attention for some reason (!).  However, he did finally refer me to an orthopaedic consultant at the local hospital.  After further x-rays, the consultant declared that he ‘suspected’ that I had torn part of the cartilage on the outer side of my knee; it isn’t possible to see cartilage on an x-ray, but his clue was that the spacing between the bones was inconsistent, and he could also feel something moving around inside my knee cap, which he thought was probably a piece of cartilage which had torn or detached.  He recommended surgery to remove the cartilage from the outer side of my knee, and added that if this surgery wasn’t undertaken, I would be unable to walk and using a wheelchair by the time I reached the age of 20.  It seemed a situation with everything to gain and nothing to lose, so the consent papers were signed and surgery went ahead.  I was then 10 years old.