Kerry-Anne Allerston
It was just after Covid when I went out on the town with a girlfriend of mine. We went for dinner and, naturally, a few nightcaps. The next morning I woke up and my left arm felt a little strange. It was almost as if it was bruised on the inside. I messaged my friend to ask whether I’d bumped it somewhere while we were painting the town neon red and just forgotten about it. She didn’t think so and I was pretty sure I hadn’t either, so I carried on regardless.
About two days later my right knee stopped working. It just stopped. I couldn’t bend it or walk on it and it seemed to happen almost overnight. Off I went to the doctor, who had no idea what was going on but gave me some medication to try. A week later I was back in his office with the same frozen knee. He was baffled and referred me to an autoimmune specialist in Pretoria, but the earliest appointment was three months away. Staying in bed for the next ninety days wasn’t an option. Time is one thing we can never get back and I wasn’t about to spend mine moping around feeling sorry for myself. I was bummed and had no idea what was happening, but I felt really good otherwise. The leg and knee were painful whenever I bumped them and it was a massive inconvenience especially because I live on the second floor so that was a whole other issue. So I did the things.
