physiotherapy

on people in my life being right, of course

I started physio yesterday.

What an encouraging experience! Until now, whenever I took the boot off ever-so-briefly to - with the utmost caution - clean my foot and change my sock, I was rather dismayed at the look of it. I’ll tell you, when your ankle area has been sliced open on both sides, and then contained in a cast or boot for weeks, it is SOME ugly.

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When the surgical resident took my cast off the first time a few weeks ago, I looked at the stapled, swollen, multi-coloured appendage on the end of my leg and said right out loud, “Wow, that looks awful,” at the exact same time as he said, “Wow, that looks beautiful,” and I was like, “oh, ya, of course, that’s definitely what I meant.” 😳 The Boy, who has been through a few casts of his own, agreed with the doc.

They were right, of course.

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So yesterday, the physio looked at my sad lump of a foot and started massaging it. She chatted away, stretching and working muscles that felt like concrete. Got me to do some movements, and burst out laughing when she told me to twist my foot outward and nothing happened. Just a little twitch.

“See? Your brain has forgotten. Your muscle went to sleep. Time to wake it up!”

By the end of the hour, some range of motion had already been restored. This morning, when I took the boot off to do the exercises she had given me, The Boy said, “Wow, that looks a lot better!”

And he was right, of course.

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When I broke my wrist several years ago, I didn’t do the exercises very diligently, then wondered why it wasn’t healing at the speed I expected. I asked the physio (a different one) about it.

Me: “people told me I’d be fine in 6 weeks”

Physio: “mmhmm, well you’re not 20 years old anymore”

Me: “oh”

*silence*

Me: “it still hurts to move it though, maybe something’s wrong”

Physio: “are you doing the exercises?”

Me: “I mean … sometimes …”

Physio: “you have to do the exercises”

And she was right, of course.

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So this time, having watched my leg muscles rapidly shrink and turn to jello, while my foot becomes increasingly immovable, I’m motivated to do the exercises.

I want to go on a nice, long walk with The Boy and our dog.

I want to be able to go for a run to clear my head again.

I’m motivated.

Plus I have a little app to hold me accountable to doing the thrice-daily exercises, which, for me, is a fantastic incentive.¹

Big shout-out to physiotherapists - actually, probably therapists of all kinds - who not only help us, but also push us to do the work, so that we can heal.

And big respect to the people in our lives who are right, of course.

1. Just want to point out my casual use of the word, “thrice,” as if I say it every day. “Oh, this old word? I just threw it in there, no big deal.”