Those who know me know I was a pretty sick puppy for much of last year. I have been on the slow, arduous trail to recovery ever since.
Part of that recovery involves physical therapy sessions twice a week. They want you to believe that PT stands for physical therapy. But I know what it really means — pure torture.
After each session, I feel lucky to walk away.
My first session last week included climbing stairs. It was only two steps, but I mounted them so many times I could have climbed to the top of the Empire State Building. Twice.
At the start of my second session, I told my therapist that my legs were really sore. “Good,” she said and led me back to the stairs. This time, I only made it to the 61st floor before collapsing.
“Good,” she said again, and I heard her laugh this time. It was just a little laugh, but there was no mistaking its meaning.
Next, she had me stand and then sit, stand and sit, stand and sit, stand and sit until my legs turned to jelly, and I knew the only way I would be leaving the building would be on my hands and knees. Or I could sit there until my next session.
The next torture was marching in place. I thought about telling my therapist I had fulfilled my lifetime quota of marching in the military years before, but I changed my mind when she told me to pick up the pace.
“Lively,” she said, and I knew she meant it because that’s what my drill sergeant used to say. I picked up the pace. “Good,” she said.
Back home, I joyously sat in a chair for the rest of the day. Strangely, I wasn’t as sore as I had been the next day. I felt pretty good. Maybe, just maybe, this PT stuff was working.
And I should tell her. I know what she would say.