Day One: Aches & Pains

I’m no good at physical therapy. I don’t understand
diagrams. I know I will rebel against the checklist by the end of the week, but
I sign my name anyway – noting the price tag of the appointment as I hand over
the paperwork. Coming here just cost me 20 scoops at Graeters.

The physical therapist sets in, asking me everything I just filled
out. I comply until we’re two generations back.

“Look,” I cut her off, “My grandma’s emphysema is beside the
point. I’m here because I ran a marathon I had no business running, and I
injured myself.”

She concedes, and we move to the exercise portion of the
exam.

“Raise your leg and resist my arm as I push down.”

Arm vs. leg – though leg is injured – seems mismatched until
she pushes my leg down with the ease of one batting away a floating feather.
True, I didn’t finish the marathon, but I did train for it for six months.
Where are my muscles?

The therapist moves to my healthy right quad. Healthy for
nothing. She wins again.

“I think it’s the emphysema,” I joke.

The therapist responds by moving me to another position for
the same game. She wins, both sides. We change angles three more times, but it
doesn’t matter. I like to think that by the end of this little exercise she’s like
me in a game with my boys – desperate to give a win, but refusing to change the
rules.

My muscles won’t fight. She hands me the dreaded stack of
diagrams and checklists to follow. They’re not the only thing I don’t
understand.

“What happened?”

“You’re weak,” she diagnoses.



And course we’re not just talking about running marathons anymore.