My name is Patricia. I'm 57. I live outside Toronto.
For four years, my knees were stealing my life. One piece at a time.
First it was the hikes. Then the stairs. Then the garden. By 2024, I was gripping the hallway wall just to get to the bathroom at 4 AM.
My husband stopped asking how my knees were in year two. Because my answer was always the same.
"Fine."
They weren't fine.
I tried everything I could find.
The copper sleeve from the pharmacy — $60. Slid down my leg within 20 minutes. Did absolutely nothing for the grinding underneath.
The topical gel my neighbour swore by — $45. Burned my skin. The bone-on-bone crunch? Still there. Louder, actually.
The ibuprofen my doctor prescribed "three times a day." Six weeks later, my stomach was burning. I was trading knee agony for gut agony. Getting nowhere.
And then the physiotherapy.
$105 per session. Twice a week. Seven months straight. That's over $6,000 I handed over for ultrasound wands and resistance bands I could have found on YouTube.
My knees still clicked going down every single stair.
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, everything changed.
I was checking out at the front desk after my 40-something session. And Karen — his receptionist, mid-60s, been there for years — was rubbing her own knee under the desk when she thought I wasn't looking.
"You too?"
She looked toward the hallway. Made sure he wasn't coming. Leaned in and said quietly:
"Honey. Everything he's doing to your knee stays on the surface. The problem isn't your muscles. It's what's happening inside the joint. None of this —" she gestured toward the treatment rooms — "reaches that deep."
I didn't sleep that night.