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the scar that wouldn’t shut up

Six years ago, I had both knees replaced: one in April, the other in September. Two slabs of titanium, a pair of long incisions, and a surgical plan that looked clean on paper. The right knee came first and brought the drama: Blount’s correction, slow healing, and a tibia cut that refused to close. A few months later, they went back in to clean it out. Eventually, it finally healed; it was not quite right, but it was enough to move forward. 

the flare-ups begin

About a year after that second surgery, the right leg started acting up quietly at first, then with more insistence. A little goose egg would rise just below the kneecap, right along the scar. Hot, red, and mean as hell. It throbbed like a second heartbeat. I went in, hoping for answers, and came out with a Sharpie line drawn on my leg like a kindergarten project and a bottle of antibiotics. They said it was cellulitis. One time they even called it “Covid Rash”. “Very common in patients with obesity,” as if that settled it. That quick conclusion became the first chapter in what would turn out to be a long-running misdiagnosis.

I’m not opposed to antibiotics. I’m a fan of science. But I kept asking the question they wouldn’t answer: why did this happen? What’s causing it? How do we stop it from coming back?

the routine that shouldn’t have been routine

It kept coming back: first every six months, then every three, until eventually, I could set my calendar by it. It was the same goose egg, the same slow heat building under the skin, the same pressure that pulsed like a warning light. I got used to it in the way you get used to living next to a train; startled at first, then resigned to the noise. Twenty times over four and a half years.

But I kept pointing to the same damn spot. Over and over. Not because I was uncertain but because no one else seemed to be paying attention. The same scar line. The same ache. The same sentence I had rehearsed in every exam room: “I think something went wrong during surgery. I don’t think this is about my weight.” They nodded politely, ignored it entirely, and handed me another prescription. The frustration of being dismissed, of feeling like a broken record, was palpable.

when pain becomes background noise

At first, it was just a hiccup, annoying but manageable. I had workouts to finish and goals to chase. This thing with my leg was just another hurdle in the way. Red as a beet and pulsing like a warning siren, but still background noise in a life that had bigger plans. I had stockpiles of those little red antibiotic pills, the ones I’d pop like breath mints every time it flared. No one had answers; it was just the same explanation on repeat: cellulitis, which is very common with obesity. I bought into it, at least a little. Part of me figured the flare-ups would stop once I lost enough weight to fall back into the “reasonable” zone. Until they didn’t.

That’s when it stopped being manageable and started being unbearable. Over the last few months, the pulsing had become darker: more aggressive, more constant. It radiated up my leg and into my temples, triggering migraines that made it hard to think, let alone write. I had to start taking pain meds just to make it through the day, and anyone who knows me knows that’s not my style. One of my dogs jumped onto the recliner and landed on my leg, and I yelped so loud it startled both of us. I couldn’t do everyday things. Not journaling. Not even resting. I didn’t want to push through it anymore; I just wanted to sleep, which worried me. 

phone-a-friend

That’s when I finally called in backup—a friend—a world-class orthopedic doctor who knows this space and limbs better than most. I laid it all out: every flare-up, every ignored question. We talked strategy this time. We needed the right language to trigger the right tests. I promised her I’d do everything she said, and I did exactly that. The relief of finally being heard, of having someone take my concerns seriously, was immense. 

chicken bones and x-rays

They did the X-rays and blood work first. I laid back on the table, trying to keep it light, cracking jokes with the person positioning my leg for the images. A part of me was convinced they were going to find something bizarre, like maybe someone had left a tool behind in there. I pictured the radiologist squinting at the screen and pulling out a pair of tweezers like we were playing a bad game of Operation. Or worse, a chicken bone. At that point, I wouldn’t have even been surprised.

They immediately found something and said they needed to do an MRI. Meanwhile, my friend stayed up with me late that night, texting and checking on me as I waited. She wanted every update, every test, every detail. And even though she wasn’t in the room, I didn’t feel alone. Her suspicions were also correct. 

the truth in the scan: misdiagnosis

They saw what I had been pointing to all along: a bone infection. Years of misdiagnosis wrapped up in one scan, finally confirming what my body had been trying to say all along. The shock of having those suspicions confirmed was overwhelming. A strange mix of grief, relief, and quiet fury.

It’s not cellulitis, a skin infection, or obesity-related irritation. It’s an actual, festering infection in the bone.

how close it came

Had it gone on longer, the infection could’ve slipped into my bloodstream and turned septic before anyone caught it. That’s not dramatic, that’s textbook. When bacteria get into the blood, everything becomes a race: a race to stop the spread, a race to save the limb, a race to survive. The bone itself could’ve weakened, fractured, or even dissolved under the pressure of the infection, slowly eating away at it from the inside. Amputation wasn’t just a distant possibility; it was a very real conversation waiting to happen. And sepsis? That’s a full-body shutdown. 

when advocacy isn’t a choice

This isn’t just about one diagnosis or one misdiagnosis. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to advocate for myself, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Advocacy wasn’t some empowering lightbulb moment. It was born out of necessity, shaped by the repeated experience of having my pain minimized and my questions brushed off. It came from sitting in exam rooms knowing something was off and watching the conversation loop back to my weight before it even touched my symptoms. It came from the quiet math of how often I’d have to explain myself before someone finally listened. It’s a perfect example of how bias becomes blindness. 

next steps and what stays with me

Another surgery is coming with possible bone grafting. Hopefully, this time, it’ll correct what’s been missed for years. I feel strangely grateful, as if God had stepped in before it could worsen, but I’m still wrestling with how long it took to get here. And every time something like this happens, I ask the same question: how can I use this? How can I turn this mess into something that might help someone else feel less alone?

Let this be that something.

We should be brave enough to listen if the body is wise enough to scream. And if the story can stop one more person from doubting what they feel deep in their bones, then the pain wasn’t wasted after all.

Life throws bumps like this, but they don’t get to rewrite my GPS. I’m still driving, still fighting, and definitely still here; probably with a snack in my cup holder and a sarcastic comment ready.