What a Life!
My therapy sessions are getting longer. To be honest, despite traction, stretching, the freaking treadmill, rolling around on a ball, and a great group of dedicated professionals, I'm not getting much better.
More honesty...I'm better when I do all the work that the therapist sets in front of me and I've done it to the best of my ability, but there's always work and truly, I'm better when I rest.
Still, in between visits, I've blown it for some reason. And I've really blown it too, evidently.
As I've said, my therapist is brilliant.
"Let's figure this out," she said a week ago. "Keep a journal for me, of all your activities, when you wake up and how long you work. Tell me where your pain is and what the degree is like."
I worked a lot of hours last week. I traveled a thousand miles. I slept rough. I was tired, but I had to work. I was up at 2:30, 3:30 and quarter to four.
I honestly did do my exercises and stretches though. In the morning, noon and night, stopping along the way to bend at the car.
"Are you kidding me?" My therapist asked. "You can't work this much. You're gonna' be a statistic. You shouldn't do this healthy."
"I don't have a choice," I said. "I have a lot of responsibility."
So we got to work and limbering me up. All of the above stretches and exercises and moans and groans.
"I hope that's a groan of relief."
"Pain," I said.
"Do some more!"
After traction I stood up and all of the compression settled. I caught the eye of an elderly woman who was doing lifts to - I assume - stretch her shoulder.
She groaned.
I don't think it was a groan of relief.
I rubbed my eyes and tried to get back among the living. The traction makes my head ache a little. I smiled at the woman.
"What a life, huh?" she asked.
We both laughed.
"It's a real picnic," I said.
I finished up and headed out.
I still had work left to do.
More honesty...I'm better when I do all the work that the therapist sets in front of me and I've done it to the best of my ability, but there's always work and truly, I'm better when I rest.
Still, in between visits, I've blown it for some reason. And I've really blown it too, evidently.
As I've said, my therapist is brilliant.
"Let's figure this out," she said a week ago. "Keep a journal for me, of all your activities, when you wake up and how long you work. Tell me where your pain is and what the degree is like."
I worked a lot of hours last week. I traveled a thousand miles. I slept rough. I was tired, but I had to work. I was up at 2:30, 3:30 and quarter to four.
I honestly did do my exercises and stretches though. In the morning, noon and night, stopping along the way to bend at the car.
"Are you kidding me?" My therapist asked. "You can't work this much. You're gonna' be a statistic. You shouldn't do this healthy."
"I don't have a choice," I said. "I have a lot of responsibility."
So we got to work and limbering me up. All of the above stretches and exercises and moans and groans.
"I hope that's a groan of relief."
"Pain," I said.
"Do some more!"
After traction I stood up and all of the compression settled. I caught the eye of an elderly woman who was doing lifts to - I assume - stretch her shoulder.
She groaned.
I don't think it was a groan of relief.
I rubbed my eyes and tried to get back among the living. The traction makes my head ache a little. I smiled at the woman.
"What a life, huh?" she asked.
We both laughed.
"It's a real picnic," I said.
I finished up and headed out.
I still had work left to do.
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