Physical Therapy and the Modern Man
I read Born to Run which turned out to be a foolish book enjoyed by me, a foolish man. It describes an ancient tribe of super athletes who ran great distances barefoot and subsisted mostly on chia seeds (seriously).
I beefed up on chia seeds at Trader Joe’s and bought new shoes with lower heels. Eventually I noticed that my right foot and lower leg hurt pretty badly and made a crinkling noise when I moved. I had shredded my achilles tendon and the connectors on the sole of my foot.
The first orthopedic doctor I visited was the big name guy in town, the old bastard who did my mother’s and aunt’s hip replacements. He hardly even looked at my chart or my leg before telling me I needed to quit running. Period.
Are you kidding me? I had built my life by substituting post-run endorphins for less healthy mood-building strategies (hint: think Daffy Duck, turnips, and the color beige) so this was like telling a junkie to quit drugs over a pimple.
The next doctor recommended physical therapy at a specific location, which made me think there was a kick back involved (but, whatever). Insurance would cover it. I made my appointment.
Upon arrival at my first PT they explained there would be three components in each session. The first was exercise. I was instructed to do a series of monotonous and/or painful movements and stretches. Somehow I forgot that physical therapy involved exercise. This was going to be torture, I concluded.
I multitasked like a modern day jerk, reading emails that weren’t at all urgent and working on my facebook while I moved my heels in a circle, flexed each toe and rotated small body parts clockwise and then counter clockwise. These exercises made me want to rip my shirt off and violently bang drums in defiance of all things civilized.
The second segment involved direct work with a physical therapist, a woman named Gloria. She began talking to me in a quiet manner. She had the type of soothing voice that calms me like a wild beast.
Gloria reached down and attached her warm hands to my lower leg. She cradled my foot as if it were a small bird. The gentle and exquisite way she caressed my toes and the bottom of my foot and ankle brought on physical pleasure I was not prepared for.
I became a bunny rabbit under her spell as fairy dust and rainbows bathed us in hope. It was the two of us and other small creatures singing and loving and moving quietly together in the sunshine to the tenor of her wondrous voice.
I was supposed to be telling her about my injury, and I was doing so, but it was difficult with my pleasure centers going haywire.
Picture a large ship in calm waters. The engine chief is in bed next to the ship’s boiler when suddenly the portholes open up and seawater gushes in. The guy can hardly get his britches on before the captain is screaming over the radio — “Harold, fire the engines!!” Did they hit an ice berg? He has no fucking idea. He is half awake. He just starts shoveling coal into the boilers as fast as he can.
My heart was beating fast, my voice was elevated and other body systems were coming on line. I thought about my Nana who lived to be 101 years old. God bless her soul — she would sometimes spit her food into my mouth when she talked. I also recalled fouling a baseball off my nuts in the seventh grade.
Gloria’s gentle movements turned more purposeful, then simply vindictive. Apparently she had to work the scar tissue off the tendon and increase the circulation. That seemed logical, but wow, it hurt. Then she hit JUST the right spot and zoomed in like a death angel. My face lit up and I tried to be brave, but this was giving-birth-to-a-child level pain (my wife, Eileen Conway would disagree— she has concluded I have a low pain threshold).
Gloria’s face registered no emotion whatsoever. As I writhed, she was like the coroner who has no problem eating a sloppy joe next to the corpse oozing brains all over the table. It dawned on me that she might be a sociopath. Not a serial killer, but someone who has no empathy or conscience, as you and I experience them. Apparently one in every twenty or so people carry some or all of this personality trait.
The third component of my session was “stim” (electrical stimulation) which was well timed and allowed me to gather myself. Gloria had floated off to another encounter, so I interfaced with a lab tech. He wrapped my legs in heated blankets and taped sensors to my feet and ankle areas. (They wanted to equally stimulate both legs/feet, even the healthy one.) We worked together to find the right level of electrical current to make my leg and foot muscles contract. I laid back and watched all of the other patients as my body moved, as if by magic.
After PT twice a week for two months I was eighty percent recovered. Ultimately they decided to put a steroid patch on the bottom of my foot to complete the rehab. It worked pretty well and I was back to running (in different shoes) within a couple of months.
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