Pragmatist
Pragmatist

When is physical therapy not therapeutic?  Read on.

I finally got an appointment for last Friday morning.  I filled out the usual paperwork, and waited, but not for long.  I was escorted to a treatment room by a very nice young man (anything under 50 is young).  We talked about my ailment and how long it's been going on (forever, it seems) and what result I wanted from treatment (lack of pain, maybe even walk without a cane).

OK so far.  However, in the interest of modesty, I'll be wearing trousers to future appointments.  Anyway...We went thru various range of motion demonstrations, and the therapist was quite surprised at what I'm able to do, like bend over and grab my ankles; twist right and left; band backward, etc.  My one-foot balance is not good.

Then he had me on the table and moving my various joints around, painlessly, I'm happy to report.  Told me I had good hip joints.  No, actually, what he said was, "That's a good hip," after the pretzel exercise. He concluded that the problem stems from my spine, not my joints.

So here I am on the table, on my front, hooked up to a couple machines, and he's doing the sonagram thing, which feels good, but even better he turns me over and I get the heat and electroshock treatment.  Oh, now that does feel good.  A few minutes later the therapist comes back in, and I tell him he can amp up the electricity.  I'm lying there enjoying the prickly shocks and the heat, when back he comes and unhooks me.

Now here comes the "good" part.  He's poking my spine and I'm going OOf, Oh!, ow.   And he's going Oh, that's a tender spot.  Well, yeah.  Now comes the gooder part.  He starts kneading the muscles in my back.  And I'm going OOOh, owie.  Ooh!!

But you know, when he got done, I was feeling sooooo good! A little woozy, in fact.   And I felt wonderful the rest of the day.  Anybody ask me to go dancing I would have said Sure!

However.....

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, I felt the call of the bladder, but when I tried to get up off the bed, I started yelling.  Pain.  Pain. And more pain.  I managed to sit down on the toilet without too much trouble, but getting up was entirely another matter.  After some struggle, I was up on two feet, and not very happy about it.  I tried to reach something on a shelf just slightly higher than shoulder height, and screamed.  Why the neighbors weren't pounding on my door, I don't know, except they much be very deep sleepers.

With much moaning and groaning and muffled screams, I managed to get back to the bedroom, hanging on to whatever presented itself, and found the bottle of Vicodin. I was tempted to pour out a handful, but limited myself to one tab.  Mercifully, the pain subsided to tolerable level once I was once again supine.  Turning over on my side was not an option.

Eventually the Vicodin won over the pain, and I was able to sleep until about 7 am.  I forced myself into the shower and stood under the steam for about 10 minutes.  Without completely drying off, and bathtowel draped around me, I hobbled back to bed and did my exercises, and felt pretty good by then.  Got dressed and headed out for the synagogue.  

When I reached the walkway into the building pain started again.  Not too bad, but when I got to where I could park my walker, I took a Vicodin.  Once inside the sanctuary, though, I decided I was not going to stay.  A good friend walked me back home and saw me almost comfortably installed in my recliner.  The Vicodin finally took effect, and I fell asleep.

Same friend came back after services to make sure I was still OK, which I was, at least for awhile.

Sunday was better.

Monday I'm walking around, but straying not far from the Vicodin.

So now you know when PT is not therapeutic.

Can't get in for another treatment until Tuesday, 6 November.  By then, I hope the daily exercise, heat and ice, will have produced some significant benefit.  After that, I'm supposed to go twice a week.  Can I handle the aftermath?  Stay tuned.


Bless