Marc and I both are infatuated with the marvelous medical benefits of physical therapy, and with our vision and grace impairments, have had frequent need for it. The PT facility Marc is going to now is in a store front on Grant Road. It is a large box of a room, with a network of paths to the weight stacks, massage tables and the traction station (or as every single patient there calls it, the rack). There are a few curtained alcoves for consultations and the more intimate procedures, but most frequently one exercises or is treated out in the open.
The waiting area is small and usually crowded. I sit and read or knit and chat. Yesterday there was only one place to sit, beside an older man wearing a paper mask. I plopped down to the right of him, settling in for the morning (Marc’s therapy takes a long time) with my tote and purse and books and Tupperware cup of yogurt’n’twigs. I usually wait until the crowd thins out before breakfasting, and since a lot of people have coffee, I don’t think it’s too rude. I acknowledged my seatmates with a smile and began to read. The masked man on my left said quietly, “Don’t worry, I won’t make you sick, I’m waiting for a marrow transplant and have almost no resistance because of the chemo.” I wanted him to be comfortable, so I said, “Oh, no worries, and I won’t make you sick—I’ve been away from my school for about six months, so I don’t have any kid-germs that will hurt you…”
He went on to describe his condition in some detail. It sounded increasingly grim until he said the disease had been arrested and the weekly therapy helped his breathing. I was so relieved to hear that he was not actually moribund that I rushed to praise the benefits of PT, how it had evolved over the past twenty years, and oh, the tools available nowadays! How useful they are and how downright elegant they can be. Why, I had been given the simplest of devices for my wrist. “It was a simple plastic rod, about yay long (holding my forefingers about eight inches apart) and about an inch and half in diameter (circling my right forefinger and thumb) and you grasped it by the base (sliding those fingers in mid air across an imaginary cylinder) and just shook it back and forth (vigorous twisting of my right wrist). It was just so effective, it was really worth the few minutes it took every day”. I’d kept my eyes on my hands to be sure my gestures were truly illustrative. I must have communicated something unintentional--I heard a snicker to my right and when I looked back to my left, that poor man, who could hardly breathe in the first place, had turned bright red and his eyes were watering. He said simply, “I imagine so.”
The story really should end here, but… I was able to escape right at that moment because Alex, Marc’s therapist called me over to explain how I was to assist Marc with his last set of home exercises. I bounded up, grabbing my purse for us to pay and leave, but as I crossed the room, I tripped over a small, short-legged trampoline leaning up on the wall next to them. Alex and Marc each caught an arm to pull me up before a full face-plant and I tried fiercely to listen to Alex, ignoring the laughter behind me.
Ok, instructions received, and final exit papers signed, I rush to just, please Lord, get out of there when Marc says, “Oh, I need my jacket!” He walks over to the reception alcove, but I know he is not going to be able to navigate the still-crowded seating area, so I push past him to pull his jacket off the wall hook. It’s the kind of hook that is wedged between horizontal slats and it comes off with the jacket. It bounces into the wastebasket in the corner. Alex calls, “Just leave it, I’ll get it later.” As I bend to retrieve it, I push Marc into the lap of the man who’d been sitting to my right. At least it wasn’t the masked man. Marc stands up and I straighten up at the same time and we bounce off each other. Alex comes over and leads Marc out of the chair maze, saying “You two do realize that this was your last authorized visit, don’t you?
Later, when I was pretty sure the waiting area would have new clients, I went back to retrieve my tote.
The waiting area is small and usually crowded. I sit and read or knit and chat. Yesterday there was only one place to sit, beside an older man wearing a paper mask. I plopped down to the right of him, settling in for the morning (Marc’s therapy takes a long time) with my tote and purse and books and Tupperware cup of yogurt’n’twigs. I usually wait until the crowd thins out before breakfasting, and since a lot of people have coffee, I don’t think it’s too rude. I acknowledged my seatmates with a smile and began to read. The masked man on my left said quietly, “Don’t worry, I won’t make you sick, I’m waiting for a marrow transplant and have almost no resistance because of the chemo.” I wanted him to be comfortable, so I said, “Oh, no worries, and I won’t make you sick—I’ve been away from my school for about six months, so I don’t have any kid-germs that will hurt you…”
He went on to describe his condition in some detail. It sounded increasingly grim until he said the disease had been arrested and the weekly therapy helped his breathing. I was so relieved to hear that he was not actually moribund that I rushed to praise the benefits of PT, how it had evolved over the past twenty years, and oh, the tools available nowadays! How useful they are and how downright elegant they can be. Why, I had been given the simplest of devices for my wrist. “It was a simple plastic rod, about yay long (holding my forefingers about eight inches apart) and about an inch and half in diameter (circling my right forefinger and thumb) and you grasped it by the base (sliding those fingers in mid air across an imaginary cylinder) and just shook it back and forth (vigorous twisting of my right wrist). It was just so effective, it was really worth the few minutes it took every day”. I’d kept my eyes on my hands to be sure my gestures were truly illustrative. I must have communicated something unintentional--I heard a snicker to my right and when I looked back to my left, that poor man, who could hardly breathe in the first place, had turned bright red and his eyes were watering. He said simply, “I imagine so.”
The story really should end here, but… I was able to escape right at that moment because Alex, Marc’s therapist called me over to explain how I was to assist Marc with his last set of home exercises. I bounded up, grabbing my purse for us to pay and leave, but as I crossed the room, I tripped over a small, short-legged trampoline leaning up on the wall next to them. Alex and Marc each caught an arm to pull me up before a full face-plant and I tried fiercely to listen to Alex, ignoring the laughter behind me.
Ok, instructions received, and final exit papers signed, I rush to just, please Lord, get out of there when Marc says, “Oh, I need my jacket!” He walks over to the reception alcove, but I know he is not going to be able to navigate the still-crowded seating area, so I push past him to pull his jacket off the wall hook. It’s the kind of hook that is wedged between horizontal slats and it comes off with the jacket. It bounces into the wastebasket in the corner. Alex calls, “Just leave it, I’ll get it later.” As I bend to retrieve it, I push Marc into the lap of the man who’d been sitting to my right. At least it wasn’t the masked man. Marc stands up and I straighten up at the same time and we bounce off each other. Alex comes over and leads Marc out of the chair maze, saying “You two do realize that this was your last authorized visit, don’t you?
Later, when I was pretty sure the waiting area would have new clients, I went back to retrieve my tote.
No more! My heart can't take it. My ribs are bruised from rolling on the floor. Perhaps now we have a basic understanding of why men seem to have well developed wrists, and possibly a fun method to prevent carpel tunnel in women.
ReplyDeleteThree dimensional space is such a bitch!
Lovely, lovely story. You have made me laugh till it hurts.
Yay, aside from unintended pain, that's just what I was goin' for. You are such a generous reader!
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