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Ouch!

The Source

I thought I knew my body. I’d lived with it for some 62 years and figured that there were very few nooks, crannies, joints, and estuaries that I hadn’t met. Then Dr. Werries introduced me to this thing called physical therapy. He took at look at the x-ray of my knee and deemed amputation to be too drastic, knee replacement a long way into the future, and injections as a last resort. “I think some therapy might help.” I’ve been told that by various family members over the years, but Doc W. had a degree hanging on his wall so I signed up. I’ll admit that I was an idiot, therapeutically speaking. I thought that physical therapy required a single visit, adjusting a few camshafts, resetting the timing on my knee, and then happily skipping back to my car. I had no idea when you called the Passavant PT department you were signing on for the season. I’d never been to the Passavant PT depot and had a bit of trouble finding it. I wish someone had told me that it was right across the hall from Werries’ office. Sort of like one-stop shopping. I soon found that when you drive behind Passavant, park your car, then wind your way through the various construction areas, you’ve already had your physical therapy. The machines of torture in PT were child’s play compared to edging my way between buildings, slogging through muddy paths, and jumping the “Do not cross” barriers behind the hospital. I’d been used to sterile, inhospitable hospitals, but when I entered the physical therapy playground I found something resembling a pre-school activity room for the walking wounded. The large carpeted area was absolutely chock-a-block with colorful gismos, gadgets, and thing-a-ma-bobs. Just looking at this eye-popping array of intriguing doohickeys I had no idea of the pain they could inflict. ..sort of like sugar-coated strychnine. At first I thought I actually had come to a day school by mistake. All the magazines in the waiting room were obviously designed for mothers waiting to pick up their children. When they called my name (always on time if not actually early) I first warned my knee that I was ready to get up. I’ve found that it’s best to discuss these things with my leg joint ahead of time. It doesn’t like surprises. The sweet little gal escorted me to an examination booth where she attempted to diagnose the cause of my pain, measure my flexibility, and then plot a course of treatment. Okay, full disclosure: I do have one complaint about this otherwise highly competent arm of our local medical establishment. If my knee doctor is right across the hall, if my knee doctor sent me here, if my knee doctor took x-rays, wouldn’t it be logical that someone would have walked the photos across the hall and told PT what was out of kilter in my leg? The privacy act should go out the window when your knee is screaming. As my visits to PT progressed, I was passed along from one therapist to another, I learned to find the lowest spots for jumping the construction barriers, and I knew that the way to avoid the more torturous machines in the playroom was to say, “That doesn’t hurt,” when using them. The mantra of physical therapy seems to be, “If it feels good, it’s doing you no good.” When they hooked me up to the no-sweat machines…those that seemed even restful…I’d just scream with pain. I’m in theatre. I know the tricks. The good news: the pain inflicted by these instruments of anguish is more than equaled by the congeniality of the therapists. Surely “people skills” are a part of their excellent training, as they give you cruise ship hospitality, complete with a Passavant volunteer who fluffs your pillow before you lie down to be annihilated. I kept waiting for someone to carve a swan out of a block of ice. It reminded me of the old Charlton Heston movie Solient Green where people were euthanized after first selecting their favorite music and scenery to experience while dying. I’d like to say that I met a delightful group of fellow patients while visiting the Passavant PT, but it’s awkward to start a meaningful relationship with your legs straight up in the air. I mean, how to you ask about the Packers or discuss the weather while looking someone on the next rack who has her head stuck into a pillow with a therapist bouncing on her back? I was afraid I’d start laughing so I simply stared at the ceiling. I’ve been a good boy. When the therapist gives me exercises to do twice daily I do them six times a day. After all, I want my knee back. The only downside is that I’ve found when stretching my left knee going 65 miles per hour in my Nissan, I keep touching the break and knocking my cruise control loose. I guess that’s better than losing a knee.