That Time I Broke My Kneecap (Thanks to a Rooster)

So… here’s the story of how I broke my kneecap.

Back in December, while we were making final arrangements to move to South Carolina Houston, Roman, Nixon, and I flew out to Greenville. The facility was totally empty—everyone else had been in Florida for over a week. Jess had asked me to check on her rabbit, Jelly Bean. It had been pretty cold, and no one had looked in on him, so I was a little nervous I might find a dead bunny. I didn’t want to traumatize the kids, so I went alone.

But first, some backstory: Jess has a free-range rooster named Mohawk. I’d met him a few times—he seemed friendly. I’d held him, fed him, and since I’ve had chickens on and off for most of my life, I wasn’t even slightly worried.

So when Jess casually mentioned I might want to take a stick with me “just in case,” I laughed it off.

Big mistake.

I walked up to the rabbit cage and knelt down to feed Jelly Bean. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mohawk circling. He was making me a little uneasy, so I closed the cage and started walking toward the back porch to feed him, hoping it would distract him.

That’s when he lost his damn mind.

He started flying at me, spurs out. I kicked him away five or six times, trying to backpedal. As I stepped to the side with my left foot, my knee dislocated. I collapsed, and that devil bird jumped on top of me while I was down. In that moment, I realized I had to get back up—fast.

I forced myself up and looked around for anything I could use as a weapon. A bat, a stick—anything. All I saw was one of those long pruning poles used to trim tree branches. While inching toward it, I managed to grab my phone and call Houston. No answer. Twice. Then I called Nixon.

He picked up, and I screamed that I needed help. Bless his heart—he sprinted all the way up to save me. Together, we used the pruning pole to hold Mohawk at bay and made it back down to the camper we were staying in.

My knee was the size of a grapefruit. I couldn’t put any weight on it. But as a seasoned moto-mom, I knew the ER wouldn’t help much. They’d take some x-rays, say the swelling made it hard to see anything, wrap it up, tell me to follow up with an orthopedic specialist, and hand me a giant bill. No thanks.

I iced and elevated it all day Sunday.

And just to make things more exciting, Houston was starting his new job in South Carolina the next day. That meant I had to fly home alone with the boys. Ugh.

We flew to Salt Lake City the following day. Surprisingly, we met some of the kindest people I’ve ever encountered on our Delta flights. We even had the same flight attendants on both legs—Greenville to Atlanta and then to Salt Lake City. They were amazing, going out of their way to take care of us. I had requested assistance, so I was wheeled from gate to gate. The airport staff were kind and got a kick out of my silly boys.

Nixon was the real MVP. He took such good care of me all day.

The worst part? Getting from the last gate in SLC to our truck. On crutches. With our luggage. That was a special kind of hell I hope to never revisit.

We still had a three-hour drive home. I was fried.

But the fun didn’t stop there. I had one week to finish packing our house—with a busted knee. We had already made some good progress, but there was still a lot to do. Houston flew home a week later, the moving truck came, we loaded up, and then we drove 2,300 miles across the country.

We powered through in about 35 hours, taking turns behind the wheel. My knee was miserable, but I survived.

Once we got to our new home, I tried to get an MRI. There’s a place in Greenville called Imago MRI that does walk-ins without a referral (moto-mom gold). I’ve taken Cooper there a few times. I was all checked in and ready—then realized I couldn’t have the scan because of the tiny prosthetics in my ears. (That’s a whole other story.)

So now I had to wait to see a doctor.

Two weeks later—thanks, holiday delays—I finally got in at Foothills Orthopedic. They took x-rays and told me I had a broken kneecap. They ordered a CT scan to check for more damage. Thankfully, all they found was a huge fluid pocket. No torn ligaments. No surgery needed. Hallelujah.

Now here we are, six months later. My knee still isn’t 100%, but it’s improving. I wore a hinged brace for eight weeks and did six weeks of PT. I still limp and it gets sore, but I’m getting around.

And before you ask—yes, Mohawk is still alive. Still attacking people a few times a week. Jess loves him, and he adores her. Too bad he hates everyone else on the planet.