Physical therapy, three times a week, has become my morning 'coffee klatch' since January 2010. No, they don't serve coffee - in fact, drinking that much coffee before being manipulated, massaged and mobile (on a treadmill) isn't really a great idea after consuming a 16 oz. cuppa joe !
Still, what is it about a group of people, coming together at the physical therapy center, comparing surgeries, injuries and recoveries - that is so, well, social?
There we are - groaning, wincing, counting reps, some of us teary-eyed, some jubilant - swapping 'war' stories. We're casually dressed - working out in sweatpants, tee shirts, sneakers - and working hard in our individual programs. Some of us chat as we are poked, prodded, stretched to better respond to our body parts - sidelined by corrective surgery or accidental injuries when we first signed up for this boot camp.
The chatting is nice; we compare notes and progress, learn about families and activities, etc., but it is also tests our aerobic abilities...we sound like human tugboats, huffing and puffing while walking or pedaling on the machines.
We're in different stages of recovery; some dread each visit, as the first days of urging reluctant limbs, torsos and so forth to respond, elicits pain and spasms. Others farther along in their personal programs speak of being able to get dressed, with help, while the patients most advanced in their scheduled PT talk about going back to work, as soon as they can "lift more than 20 pounds."
At each visit, each patient reports, to our therapists, "our number" as we hobble in, favoring shoulders, knees, backs, ankles, etc. "How's the pain, today?" asks Michael (not his real name). "4," answers the tall man with a scar along his ankle. Laura (again, an alias) asks me what the number is at each visit with her. On the most recent visit, I answered, "It was a 9 when I first woke up, but is a 6, now....I went to a concert for Haitian relief last night." This explains my pain, as my 'injury' speaks for the 3 spinal surgeries that left me with great difficulty when I sit still for more than half an hour. The goal - for each of us - is that the number we go out with is lower than the number we came in with. That day, I went home a 5.
Now, I've always dreamed of being a "10" - as in the 1979 movie with actress Bo Derek. She was stunning in her bikini and braids, golden tan - emerging like a goddess from the surf - a "10" to hapless, hopeful suitor Dudley Moore (himself a 5). Being a 10 here at PT is not an achievement to celebrate. Still, a 10 here can become a 6 in a few weeks, or a 4 in a few months, and that's a good thing. My program includes moist heat (ahhhh...), followed by ultrasound (painless), deep muscle massage (not painless), then stretching, more stretching (more pain, but then release as muscles stretch), and it winds down with a stroll on the treadmill. I'm so spent, by then, and, while my back spasm pain is lessened, the weakness in my left leg and foot is worse, for a while, for that foot doesn't want to respond these days. I have hope, but that's the way it goes.
We laugh a lot, too. We joke about "Michael de Sade" (his massages are the deepest, and really get to the root of the muscle spasms) and Laura's reports about American Idol results. We laugh about how we come in the door looking like the coming attractions for "Night of the Living Dead," and go out looking a tiny bit more nimble - if not very glamorous.
Sometimes, I've met up with people I know from around town, and we share photos of grandkids, tales of surgeries, etc., and wish each other well. As we "graduate" (some run out of insurance coverage for treatments, while some recover fully), we wish each other luck and good health. It's a nurturing environment people are glad to leave behind, when they feel better, but others continue on - working hard to get better, too.
We all laughed one day when I, feeling like a 6 when I arrived, had my program supervised by Michael. He finished the very thorough massage, which hurt deeply, telling me that he was reaching that awful, hidden knot that caused my pain the night before. I rolled over, did my stretches (3 exercises, 20 reps each leg), and rose, unsteadily, to do the treadmill. Still sweaty from the heat pack, my shirt was all bunched up, my pants askew, my socks rumpled. I smoothed my shirt back down, straightened my athletic pants, and fluffed my hair. I told Michael that I looked like I'd been schmoozing with my husband, Neal, and we all laughed...most of all, me.
You see, I might not be a 10 like Bo Derek of movie fame, but I'm not always a 10 at PT, either. I do dream of being a 1 or 2, seem to be a 4 or 5, on a good day, but it's okay. I'm not out to complete with Bo Derek's bikini of 1979. I'm too modest - although I do joke that I am going to have a zipper tattooed over my three scars - or wear my sweatpants on the beach. Now, that would be a movie...
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