I'll never forget the morning I realized my knees had taken over my life.
I was standing at the bottom of the stairs in my own house, mentally calculating which leg to lead with. I'd been doing it for so many years it had become automatic. Step together. Step together. One stair at a time, holding the rail like an old man — which, technically, I had become.
On the kitchen counter behind me sat the latest collection of failed solutions: prescription Voltaren gel, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen, two different glucosamine supplements, the knee brace I'd worn during yard work all summer, and the cane my wife had finally talked me into keeping by the back door.
None of it was working. My orthopedist had laid out the next steps at my last visit, and the words "partial knee replacement" were now part of my vocabulary. I'd quietly started researching surgeons. Working out whether I could take the time off without throwing the whole quarter sideways at work.
I was 64 years old, and I was starting to feel 80.
If three years of every product, prescription, and physical therapy session couldn't help me — what could?