It was 3:12 AM on a Wednesday.
I found my dad in the hallway, sitting on the floor, gripping his knee and shaking.
He wasn’t crying. He was gasping.
Like someone had knocked the air out of him.
“I think I tore something,” he whispered.
“I just tried to stand up. I didn't do anything wrong.”
The look in his eyes still haunts me.
His shirt was soaked in sweat.
His leg was stiff and trembling.
He had tried to get out of his car earlier that night and felt something snap as he pulled himself up using the door.
He thought it would get better if he just rested.
But now the pain was back, and worse than before.
Knee started swelling again.
All I could think was: How did it come to this?
My dad had trusted the process.
He went through months of appointments, scans, surgery, and rehab.
He followed every instruction.
And now, just three weeks after getting a brand new knee, he was on the floor, terrified that he had ruined it.
I felt useless.
A physiotherapist who couldn’t even help her own father avoid re-injury.
I had spent years learning how to guide patients through recovery.
Exercises. Stretching routines. Bracing. Ice packs. Elevation. Pain meds.
But none of that prepared him for the simple act of standing up from a low car seat.
None of the "experts" had told him what to do when he felt stuck, or how to protect the joint when moving from seated to standing.
They sent him home with a new knee, a packet of instructions, and no plan for real-world mobility.
That night, something in me snapped too.
I wasn’t going to let him become just another failed recovery story.
So I went looking for something better.