Two weeks ago on an airplane I reached up to put my suitcase in the overhead rack, turned to take my seat, and did something terrible to my left knee. For a while I did nothing about it, not knowing what to do (ice? heat? wrap? rest? walk it through?) The knee got worse. Eventually I went to a doctor, who sent me to a physical therapist.
I didn't tear my meniscus (until this happened I didn't even know I possessed a meniscus. Or, more accurately, two). This is good because it means I don't need surgery. The meniscus is, however, strained and "profoundly irritated," an image I like because I picture the ball of cartilage in there scowling furiously. So now I must do exercises, take anti-inflammatories, refrain from jogging (which I wasn't doing anyway), and take the dog on only very short walks. The dog will not like this. However, her menisci are fine, so she'll have to give way.
Good thing I'm a writer instead of, say, a dancer. Writers have a long shelf-life, even if some of our bits and pieces become battered. In fact, a study I read recently compared when people in various professions on average "peak": do their best and most original work. Writers are the last to peak. Physicists and mathematicians peak earliest; often they have their most original insights in their twenties, and then spend the rest of their careers exploring the implications of those insights. With or without working menisci.