"How are you?"

With a chiropractic appointment on the schedule for later this afternoon (my third in as many weeks) and physical therapy ahead in the coming weeks, my mind drifted during my morning commute to what questions I might be asked by the doctors—and what I should say.

Some form of "How are you?" inevitably begins the conversation. Sometimes it gets re-packaged as "Has anything changed since we last met?" or something slightly more fancy. But they're all essentially the same question. My chiropractor is the best at the talking to other people thing, obtaining the necessary verbal information in the least painful way possible.

And it's a fair question. I just never know how to answer: I'm doing alright. Still feeling the same tightness behind the left knee. Same spot. It doesn't feel any worse, but it also doesn't feel much better. And, of course: I've done everything you told me to do since we last met.

Toward the end of my rambling attempts at answers, I always feel this strong desire to communicate something new, something helpful, some previously overlooked detail that might make the decisive difference. But the pause is immediately filled. Some combination of words intended to communicate sympathy and understanding speed toward my ears, with proper bedside manner of course. And so we move on. The office is not the place for that sort of speculation, I've discovered.

Which is why I'm speculating in the car. As I join the rest of Minneapolis on the interstate, I finally have two realizations that immediately make me feel better. They relate not to the injury itself, but to why the injury is frustrating.

First, this injury is particularly frustrating because the healing process is so slow. Day to day, it basically feels the same: not worse, not better, just the same; always the same. Deep down, I think I believe that the injury is actually healing itself and that my two legs will one day explore freely again. But not being able to perceive improvement or mark progress somehow is difficult.

Second, this injury is particularly frustrating not because it's painful (it's probably a 3 on the 1-10 scale), but because of the separation it forces from things I love and enjoy.

Ah, there. Expressed. Now I feel better. Maybe that is progress.