I've taken a couple of months off from the blog in order to get back into the swing of real life. I've gone back to work, which at first was a bit daunting since nearly everything I was selling before the surgery had been discontinued in favor of new models. The nomenclature of home technology normally requires a glossary of terms to understand, but when you've been away from it for several months a Rosetta Stone would be more appropriate. I felt like I was floating in a sea of indecipherable vocabulary, occasionally having a shark come up and nudge my leg, reaching out for a lifeboat that keeps moving just out of my reach.
And then it all made sense again.
On the foot front things are progressing as they should be. The wounds have now pretty much closed up. The last to go was the largest one on the left side of the foot, the source of all gauze related discomfort at one time. Now it has neatly scabbed over and per the instructions of, well, everyone I am not picking at the scab. However any time someone mentions not to pick at the scab the only thing I want to do is pick at the scab. Otherwise I never think about it. And if I blink or yawn, you will blink or yawn as well.
Yesterday as I was driving up to The City for another physical therapy appointment I grumbled to myself that this was going to be the last one. For two months I've been going there, riding the bike, making circles with my foot, tracing the alphabet with my foot, bending my foot back and forth, and occasionally having someone twist and turn my foot in one direction or another. Save for the last bit, everything else I could do at home. I didn't need to drive through traffic twice a week, struggle to find parking, and put up with a smelly old gym (yes, the gym's charms wore off a few weeks ago). I was going to go to this last appointment, tell them I'd call about the next one, and quietly slip off into that wormhole of customers who never return.
My resolve to do that only strengthened when my PT assistant of the day turned out to be a kid I have nicknamed Caspar Milquetoast. I'm sure he's a nice kid but as a physical therapist he leaves a lot to be desired, mostly because he refuses to put any strength into the only thing I really need a therapist for -- the resistance work. Whereas all the other guys really force me to push against them, Caspar retreats like a friendly ghost, offering little if any resistance. Having him was just another nail in the coffin of physical therapy as far as I could see.
I'm riding the bike and Caspar asks when was the last time I saw Mr. Miyagi, the actual physical therapist. Not in a couple of months I reply, so off he goes to fetch the elusive Miyagi. I must have turned my head or closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, but suddenly he appeared next to me asking how everything was and had all the wounds healed. When I said they had, he clapped his hands together like a miniature Oliver Hardy and exclaimed that it was now time to really start working on my foot. He turned to Caspar, told him to do ultra sound therapy all the way up to my knee and then a deep massage on my calf and ankle. Mr. Miyagi would then come back and do some resistance work. Okay, I thought, let's see where this goes.
The ultra sound went fine and then I prepared myself for what I assumed would be the worst leg massage I've ever had.
A BRIEF INTERLUDE: Years ago Betsey and I went up to Calistoga for mud baths and massage at Doc Wilkinson's Spa. When asked what type of massage I wanted I opted for the Shiatsu massage because I had never had one. After half an hour of having elbows pile driven into my muscles and fingers literally wrap themselves around various tendons and ligaments, I swore I would never have one again. That was until yesterday.
Caspar Milquetoast turned into the Incredible Hulk ("Hulk like to smash things"). I have never felt pain like I was feeling then. My calf muscles were on fire. I suddenly understood that I could never stand up to torture. If I have the secret codes you will get them with little effort on your part. I swear I thought at one point he was going to ask me if it was safe. I have never in my life asked a masseuse to stop because it hurt too much but I found myself just on the edge of crying out for Caspar to cease when, in fact, he stopped. I'm laying on the table completely drenched in sweat, completely spent, and all I've been doing is nothing.
But damn my leg and foot felt GREAT!
Once again Mr. Miyagi appeared at my side asking me this time if I had ever done yoga. Other than in college when I did it in order to ogle the girls and one time at a Club Med when I was dared to do it, I had not. Then we will start slow he said and guided me down to the floor and onto a yoga mat. This will be for the stretch of your foot he told me and had me kneel down and place my feet under my butt. Then he had me lean back and apply pressure to my calves and feet. You will do this for ten seconds he commanded and we will build up to one minute. In my mind Mr. Snark came out to play. Ten seconds? Really? We gotta build up to.....
OH MY DEAR GOD THE PAIN!!!!
I was cursing every sugary snack I ever ate in life, every time I went back for seconds at the buffet, every time I laughed at my dancer friends who warmed up while I sat there making fun of them. A minute, are you insane?! My knees will pop out and my thigh muscles will explode if I do a minute.
And it was when I was doing that last one, the one lasting a minute, that Mr. Miyagi bent down and asked, "When will we see you again?"
"Next Wednesday", I croaked.
