Chapter 06
No Room For Me
What do you fear when the fear changes shape?
2 min read
I had a bad landing while playing futsal.
I remember lying on the ground, and my tears touching the ground before my leg did.
I rested for about a month. Then I played again.
The same knee swelled up, continuously, for two or three days.
An MRI followed.
Complete tear of the ACL.
Partial tear of the meniscus.
Right knee.
I remember holding that report in my hand.
The pain wasn't on my knee anymore. It was on my mind. On my heart.
Before all this, I was afraid of surgery.
I went to a few hospitals around Kathmandu. Kathmandu Teaching Hospital. The Trauma Centre at Bir Hospital. One private hospital.
Eventually I decided on a date. Surgery, the following Friday.
That same week, something else was happening in Nepal.
A movement people were calling the Gen Z movement turned violent on the Monday and Tuesday of that week.
The Trauma Centre filled up completely. Every bed was taken.
There was no room for me.
The fear changed after that.
I wasn't afraid of the surgery anymore.
There was only one question left.
Would I get a bed.
I went to the hospital every day. Just to ask that.
I got the bed the following Wednesday.
Surgery was set for around 9 in the morning. A senior doctor would be operating.
Right before, there was one more problem. One of the anesthesia injections was in short supply — too many patients admitted that week, not enough of it to go around.
They moved me toward the operating theatre anyway.
The doctor reassured me — that I was already there, and that they would go ahead with the surgery.
I took a long breath.
Then the anesthesia went in. My lower body went numb. I couldn't feel any of it.
The surgery took three or four hours, I think.
I lay there thinking the whole time.
About my mum.
About my career, and what would happen to it now.
Whether I'd walk normally again.
Whether I'd run again.
Whether I'd play any sport again.
Whether I'd be able to ride a bike.
How I was even going to manage with crutches.
How I was going to get home from the hospital at all.
Afterward, they moved me to a general room.
About six hours later, the anesthesia wore off, and the real pain started.
I've fallen off bikes before. Fallen off a ladder. Burned my fingers. Cut myself by accident more than once.
None of that came close.
I was discharged after three days.
I was so happy to be going home.
Then I remembered I had to actually get there. A taxi. And my flat was on the first floor.
One flight of stairs.
You have reached the end of Chapter Six.
Take a breath.
Continue when you’re ready.