“Everybody’s at war with different things, I’m at war with my own heart sometimes.” - Tupac
The Genesis
“It’s going to be very hard for you to see him” - my physical therapist said.
I asked if she had any tips on meeting this famous doctor, and she shook her head in response. My therapist had become familiar with me enough to know I would go to any lengths to crack the code of my mysterious injury. She wished me luck and, with diplomatic grace, added:
“But you know, Bavaria is different. They like rules over there, and your Californian enthusiasm won’t work.”
Without missing a beat, I responded from a massage table:
“Okay, I want to try anyway. If they ask me to play tambourine, I’ll do it.”
Fabienne smiled, cracked the usual Swiss professional self-restraint, and opened up slightly:
“I don’t know where you end up, but I like your unusual motivation.”
The truth is that I was running on fumes. It was the midpoint of the three-month-long medical sabbatical I took from work in San Francisco, and nothing was going according to plan.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. To understand how I ended up desperate in a Swiss physical therapy room, you need to know why I was there in the first place.
The Basel Rewind
Roll back to 2018. I moved to Basel to fix my semimembranosus (one of the hamstring muscles) injury.
Here’s how I summarized it in 2018:
Semimembranosus injuries are rare, and my pull is in the lower part of the muscle, which is even rarer. I’m two years into this injury, and I haven’t recovered despite a dedicated commitment to physical therapy. Typically, muscle pulls take 2–3 months of physical therapy to treat, but my injury wants to stand out.
I moved to Basel for the summer of 2018 by taking a sabbatical from my job at Stripe. The plan was to entirely focus on the injury, spend three months working out the underlying puzzle, and fix my problem. I would come back to San Francisco, recovered, ecstatic, and back to kicking. I bet on Europe’s original sports clinic, and it felt like a good plan.
I took detailed notes of my first eight weeks of recovery. You can check them out if you’re really curious. Notes from previous weeks: week 1, week 2, week 3, week 4, week 5, week 6, week 7 and week 8.
Why did I stop at week 8, given I had planned 12 weeks of stay? The last four weeks were too painful to write about. By week 8, it was clear that my bet on the Basel clinic didn’t work out. I came with hamstring tension that we made significant progress on, but a lingering adductor tension developed into a major problem. By week 8, I felt worse than before I started the Basel treatment. People at Rennbahnklinik had warned me that my issue was in the all-bets-are-off territory, and my move didn’t guarantee anything. No one warned me my condition might get even worse, though.
I once read that to write well, you need to pick a good story. Undoubtedly, my recovery from a rare and daunting medical condition is the best story I can tell: a two-and-a-half-year Marshmallow test where I repeatedly thought I was wasting my life chasing a hopeless goal.
My intention is not to be brief. I’m writing the detailed account I desperately searched for and never found: one rich enough in specifics that I could believe the author truly understood the struggle. Being wary of thin advice that expresses more how the world should work than how it actually does, I’m writing an account first and lessons learned second. I fully recognize that my unusual choices could have easily led to failure, burning through money and goodwill with nothing to show for it.
By late July 2018, I had spent a feverish month looking for a solution. I had developed a muscle tension in my adductor that turned itself on and off, seemingly at random. The switch was so fast that both the people at the clinic and I became convinced it had a neurological origin. We tried a whole array of local interventions that I described in my notes. None of them seemed to address the root cause of the problem. My doctor at the clinic declared he was out of ideas. I had a month left in Basel. I decided to follow one more clue: Luca (one of my therapists) discovered that I had a condition called visual suppression caused by convergence insufficiency. In a nutshell, we suspected that my ski accident might have left small residual damage in my brain’s perceptual regions linked with the sense of balance. The adductor helps stabilize the hips and maintain balance.
One of the challenges you face when dealing with a mysterious condition is that there’s a lot of guesswork and false hopes involved. The trick is to stay open to any possibility and, at the same time, kill the wrong hypothesis quickly.
How do you go about killing the hypothesis of a connection between insufficient convergence, a hidden brain injury, and stubborn tension in an adductor? I started by researching the strength of the first link. After searching online for one whole afternoon, I came across research by Dr. Uzma Samadani, who worked on detecting hidden brain injuries. I sent her an email describing my condition, and she responded promptly (thank you!) with one sentence: look for an optometrist.
I called the local vision research clinic and explained my predicament. I said, “I have this big muscle control puzzle, and there’s this eye-related hypothesis.” A few emails later, I convinced them to take me almost the next day despite the holiday season peak. By then, I had learned how to play a “mystery card.” I would get people excited that they were part of cracking an enigma. Especially in Switzerland, trying to go around the rules (e.g., skipping the line) won’t get you far. Taking people on a quest is what worked much better for me.
A week later, the diagnosis came back: the doctor didn’t find any vision issues; my convergence insufficiency was within the normal range. Some people have it naturally. I aced every other vision test (good news), and I was back to square one (bad news).
Deeply resigned, I reported the findings to Fabienne. I asked her one more time if she could think of anything else she might suggest. The next day she brought a book with her and said, “I have an idea for you. There’s this famous doctor in Germany who treats soccer players and specializes in muscle injuries. I learned from his textbook.” I was all fired up about this idea, and then she continued, “but it’s going to be very hard to see him.” By now, you can recognize this as the conversation with Fabienne I opened my post with. So what happened next that day? I told Fabienne that I would figure out how to get there and see the famous doctor.
Once my physical therapy finished, I headed to a library. I looked up the clinic online — it was famously effective and famously controversial. I saw articles claiming miracles for an impressive lineup of celebrities, and questions raised whether the methods could still be called medicine. I discovered that Bono was a patient there not so long ago. Then, I saw Usain Bolt and other Olympic athletes on the list. Two questions popped into my mind: (1) What’s so special about this famous doctor that’s attracting all these top-notch people? (2) How can I become part of the list?
I didn’t belong to that list, but that didn’t matter. Beating my injury is all I cared about. To give you a sense of how much I cared, let me highlight some of the things I did before my conversation about the Munich clinic Fabienne recommended. I was taking detailed, daily notes on changes to my muscle tension in hopes of working out a pattern. I sat in a library and read sports medicine research papers on hamstring injuries in the hope of finding a connection to the adductor tension. A few weeks into my Basel stay, I knew that the “glutes” are a complex of three muscles: gluteus maximus, gluteus medius, and gluteus minimus meticulously arranged behind your hips. I learned about muscles such as the piriformis — a small, deep muscle beneath the glutes — an important stabilizer of the hip and leg. During my library sessions, the iPad app Human Anatomy Atlas became my most faithful companion.
Why did I learn all of this? Partly, it was a way for me to do something with my time. I went all-in with my recovery: it was a full-time proposition. Partly, it was my response to the despair I felt. I bet a lot on Basel and was trying to save my gamble. Partly, I hoped I would find something others have missed. Lastly, I wanted every ounce of effort and creativity from people that were taking care of me. I deeply believe motivation is contagious. What’s a better way to show you’re motivated than show up and say, “Doc, I’ve read about the piriformis muscle and have some questions,” and watch his eyebrows rise?
Sing For The Moment
The other thing I strongly believe in is that one shouldn’t be a downer. You shouldn’t suck the energy out of the room you enter. I understood it well, having observed how physical therapists reacted to other patients who were consistently pouring out their ills on their surroundings. The therapist I watched would be professional, but would count the minutes until the end of their time slot with a mood-sucker. And to be clear, I’m talking about embittered people, not the ones truly suffering in the moment. Anyway, I didn’t want to be one of the whiners, yet my mental health wasn’t excellent, to say the least, and I suspected everyone could tell. I reached out to the great Slim Shady for consolation. Each morning, as I biked to the clinic or the training, I put my AirPods in and blasted ‘Till I Collapse by Eminem:
‘Cause sometimes you just feel tired, feel weak
And when you feel weak, you feel like you wanna just give up
But you got to search within you, and try to find that inner strength
And just pull that shit out of you
Chills ran through my back, and I biked faster. ‘Till I Collapse became my anthem for the rest of the year 2018.
A few weeks into my frantic study, I felt like I was learning lots of low-level details (and retaining a fraction of what I read), but I missed the big picture. And more importantly, nothing was turning up in the “hamstring injuries lead to adductor issues” category. I decided to continue sitting in the library, but my reading list expanded with books on elite athletes. I was interested in athletes’ medical teams in the hope of finding leads to other doctors. I researched and called clinics in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Tokyo, Quebec, and Toronto. To no avail. Once I got past the front desk workers to actual doctors, the conversation always ended in one of two ways. One way was “we don’t think we have anything to add on top of what you have done already”. The other was, “we don’t know what this is, but we could see you, and maybe we can look more closely; by the way, we’re fully booked for the next three months.” I’ve tried many things already, and the prospect of traveling across the world on a very thin backing didn’t sound like a good bet to me.
Fabienne was one of the best physical therapists I’ve met. She had this fantastic feel for the body and what I like to call kinesthetic intelligence. She could instantly pin down my muscle issues just as I was walking in. She was unusually observant and curious. Her earnest recommendation of a mysterious clinic in Munich was a strong signal for me. I thought it was worth giving it a chance. After all, Munich wasn’t that far from Basel.
The hard part was getting an appointment. In my scattershot attempts, I’d find myself posting on Hacker News (a programmers’ news and community website), chasing down people in Florida, and a whole lot more.