My knee has not experienced the stratospheric miraculous recovery that I had hoped for. In fact, I am now using a cane. The cane isn't for my bad knee though, it's for my good knee. It's not liking the extra work and limping on both legs can't be good. So I've succumbed to the cane - I've not used one since blood poisoning nearly lead to the amputation of my right foot.
That's another long, stupid story that I hesitate to commit to paper or web.
The cane is bizarre - with time it can become like another appendage. I hope to be better before that, but in the meantime I hobble the street, counting my pace, trying to make sure it's doing its job. I look like Hugh Laurie's House in both infirmity and miserable demeanor, but in nothing else.
It could be worse, I know that. It could always be worse.
It could have been both knees.