I've got a fairly high tolerance for pain. Theoretically.
That changed recently when the third time my doctor told me to go to physically therapy (and I told her I hadn't gone on her other two recommendations), her nurse handed me off to the one down the hall before I could leave her office. Since that day, a few weeks ago, they measured my movements, poked and pushed and pulled me, and gave me exercised to do three times each day. Sometimes more.
The first guy told me to go to PT appointments three times each week. I started laughing. "Um, I work three jobs, a minimum of 46 hours per week, some days working 14+ hours until 10:30ish at night. You'll be lucky if I can get here once per week."
The next week I went to another office in the same chain of PT practices, and went back twice the next week to see the same therapist. Twice I felt better, once I felt worse. Apparently, feeling worse means you're getting better. Great.
Monday, I was able to get to yet a third location and yet another therapist. This guy's been in the business for 20 years. I could tell. I want to go back to him again. He wasn't gentle like the other two. He very nearly left me with bruises. I enjoyed nearly every minute of it. I cannot wait to get back there on Wednesday to have him manhandle my neck and spine, twist my arm, and electrocute the knots in my shoulder and neck. He may even talk me into sticking needles into my knots. Maybe.
Honestly, if he can make my neck feel better and do it in a way that makes me trust him while he's got his hands around it, I'm all for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment