'I spent years finding a GP that would listen. Then, one asked me a question that brought me to tears.'

I blamed myself for the pain for so long.

I blamed myself for not being able to fix it, and the reason I blamed myself was because I was fat.

I wasn't fat when I first hurt myself, an injury that would set me on the path of 30 years of pain. In fact, I was incredibly fit back then.

I was just 14 years old, playing netball when a misstep saw me snap my cruciate ligament in my left knee. I had it reconstructed but within 15 years, the graft failed.

It meant that instead of being a nice straight line holding my knee joint in place, it had stretched and gone wavy, so the joint was regularly slipping.

Over the 10 years (or so) of that graft failing, it caused the bones around the very little cartilage I had left to slice into it, slowly eroding it away.

A second knee reconstruction saw some improvement, but again 15 years later, the pain had become almost unbearable.

On one side of my left knee there was no cartilage left at all. Bone was grinding on bone each and every day. I couldn't walk my dog around the block without it collapsing or shooting needles of fire up through the joint.

It was also impacting my mental health. I had dreams where a building would be collapsing around me and I would tell my family to run away and save themselves, knowing I would never be able to escape the falling debris.

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I reached out to several GPs as the pain worsened over the years, but I was no longer that incredibly fit teenager.

Now I was (according to the bullsh*t BMI) morbidly obese, and for anyone who has ever been overweight or who is currently, you know what it means to see a doctor with any health issues. You are now in a weight-first environment.

What does that mean? It means that no matter your ailment, you will be told that losing weight is the solution.

One GP told me to lose 15 to 20 kilos and I'd be all better. One said for every 5 kilos I lose, I'll see an improvement in pain by 20 er cent, but each one of them sent me off on my merry way with no support on how to actually achieve that.

I left those appointments feeling both small and humongous at the same time.

I was to blame for all of this. I was fat and, therefore, it was my fault that I was in pain.

They had every right to tell me to fix it myself because I'm the problem, me and my inability to not be fat.

Of course, I knew that losing weight would help the situation. Not putting as much pressure on a knee joint absolutely would be less painful. And I tried to make that happen. I tried diets and as much exercise as that dodgy knee would allow, but I would lose a few kilos only to put them all back on and sometimes even more.

I felt like I was nothing more than a fat thing. Not even a person, because a person would surely be able to access the necessary treatment to alleviate their pain. Not me though, not when you're 'one of the fat ones'.

I was getting desperate. The pain was intense and there was no end to it. It had gotten so bad for so long that I worried about what my life would look like as an elderly woman. I would be wheelchair-bound for sure.

Also, a part of me worried that maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was making it up, maybe I wasn't really in pain at all. Maybe it was just because I was fat.

My new GP is actually a cardiac surgeon. However, his qualifications don't allow him to practise here in Australia, so he turned his hand to general practice.

As someone with more specific surgical expertise, it was clear to him that to understand his patient better he needed to send me for an MRI.

I was actually so shocked that he would allow this next step for me — this fat person who deserved to experience that pain, allowing all that weight to bare down on my injured knee joint — I was stunned. Someone was going to actually look at the injury and check to see how bad it was? 

Then he did something that no GP has EVER done in my presence. He asked permission.

"Would it be ok for us to discuss your weight?" he asked.

This is the first time I remember ever bursting into tears in a doctor's office.

It was for two reasons. One, because I would have to have the talk about losing weight again, knowing how excruciatingly painful that conversation is and how often I had failed at it, and two, because no one had ever asked my permission before.

I could have said no in that moment and he would have respected that.

Image: Supplied.

I didn't say no despite my entire body wanting not to have the discussion. I knew, even though it hurt to do it, it was a conversation I had to have.

He weighed me. I asked him not to tell me the number because I knew how it would impact me psychologically, how that number would bounce around my brain for weeks, reminding me of what a failure I was at the simple task of not being fat.

To my surprise, he respected that and discreetly wrote it into his notes. He asked me if I had ever been recommended weight loss medications.

I'd never been given that option. I presumed it was because my 'version of fat' was all my fault and therefore on me to handle.

He recommended a medication to start, and to come back in two weeks after my MRI and we'd see how I was going.

A fortnight passed. No success with the medication, but the MRI result showed a knee absolutely lit up with osteoarthritis.

He immediately wrote me a referral to a knee surgeon, saying he believed I was a perfect candidate for knee replacement surgery.

This is the second time I cried in my doctor's office because every GP I had seen told me I was too young. That I should consider lifestyle changes before surgery. 

My GP did recognise that while he was considerate in asking me about my weight, he didn't know if the knee surgeon would be as understanding. He asked if we could try and get me as strong and healthy as possible to make recovery from that surgery easier.

He suggested another medication. I was referred to a physio, who just quietly, also became my therapist with her specialist knowledge of chronic pain and how to manage it. He also sent me to a dietitian, and I got a better understanding of my relationship with food.

After all that expertise worked its way through my brain and body, I went to that surgeon's referral appointment.

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I was told again that I was too young, but there was no way that my knee joint would last me until I was 60, so if I wanted joint replacement surgery he would book it in!

I cried again, of course.

Three decades after that initial teenage injury, I walked into the hospital, 20 kilos lighter, much, much stronger and ready to start the next phase of my life pain-free.

The recovery was actually amazing, barely any pain (especially compared to what I had been dealing with daily up to that point) and I regained motion in that joint that I hadn't had for years.

I often now think about how I, an educated, white woman with English as my first language, found it difficult for my pain to be taken seriously. What hope do others who don't have my privilege on hand to keep pushing have?

So to the GP who asked my permission, who supported me and who handed me the tools to win, thank you.

And to every healthcare professional who might read this, you have the power to be someone's life-changing moment. Please don't take that lightly. 

Feature image: Supplied.

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