Two days after a surgeon went all Texas Chain Saw Massacre on my right knee last month, a physical therapist came to my home and told me to grab my walker and get moving.
He wanted to see if I could shuffle through the house for five minutes. After three, I waved my hand in surrender, saying I felt woozy. I had to lie down.
This was distressing. I’ve always prided myself as someone able to plow through travail. I once shattered my right hand in the first round of a Golden Gloves bout but finished the three-round fight with both arms flailing, embodying the never-give-up style of Rocky.
