The wonders of modern physical therapy or will she ever walk again?

Several weeks ago to aid in the healing of my injured knee I was thrust (by my beloved HMO) into the “capable hands” of TheraMatrix Physical Therapy facility. The place continues to boggle my mind to this day. In the six weeks I’ve been going there, I have seen six therapists! I kid you not. The place is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get.

First time I show up there, I meet my therapist. He does an evaluation on my knee and prescribes some exercises. I’m hopeful and eager to start my healing process. “Oh, by the way, I’m quitting here at the end of the week” – my therapist informs me in passing. Okay, I think, I haven’t formed any emotional attachments, so I guess, I’ll survive. The next time I’m in there I’m seeing someone else already. The woman bombards me with the same questions about my knee. I sigh and repeat the whole sordid story. Then she tells me to go ahead and do the exercises the other therapist recommended. I proceed to do just that until I see the look of disapproval on her face. The look says “Tsk, tsk, tsk.. You’re doing it all wrong!” “What?” I ask. She tells me that I’m supposed to hold my squats and leg lifts for 10 counts, not just go at it. I say “okay” and obediently start holding. The very next session, yet another therapist inquires with alarm in his voice “why are you holding the squats and the leg lifts?!! “Umm..” I stumble. “’Cause one of you fine folks told me to?” “No, no, no. Stop holding. Your knee is too weak for that!” - he urges. “Right-o”, I sigh and even more obediently stop holding. Couple sessions later I’m meeting third therapist in the lineup of caring knowledgeable people employed by this amazing facility dedicated to make us invalids all better in no time at all. Where was I? Oh yes. The third therapist is fresh off the boat and happily informs me that he came to Michigan (vs. any other state) because Michigan has the lowest standards for foreign PT specialists for passing their US exams to be able to practice. “Goody!” I think. “How lucky am I?” Then the new guy wants to know “where it is paining?” “Right here” I say, pointing to my head.

Two sessions later, lo and behold, it’s a fresh new face. This lady looks like she really wants to be there. I mean, REALLY. The dedication in her eyes is simply undying. Yea, right. At a crawling speed she does my ultrasound, for some reason favoring the outside of my knee, though I have an MCL sprain, which, for those not in the know, is the ligament on the inside of the knee. Then, in an exhausted voice she asks me how she should apply the E Stim (electrical stimulation) to my knee and whether she should use the cold pack or the hot pack on top of it. “Well…” I hesitate and then politely inquire “Don’t YOU know how it should be done?” Blank face follows and I swear I could hear the squeaking of the wheels in the brain.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. The knee is getting better despite the efforts of my diligent caretakers. I go in one night and see, yet again, that the new guy is eager to heal what ails me. He appears quite knowledgeable and declares that A) I’m doing well enough to stop going to PT and just continue with my exercises at home and B) I have to start wearing a different brace (a lighter one. I’ve changed 4 braces already) but wear it a night also! “Okay”, I say and cancel my upcoming sessions. I go home only to get a phone call from the PT office to tell me that they are concerned with my canceling my therapy and that I need to come back for an evaluation. Like a sad little donkey pulled by its reins, I haul my cute little butt back in. One of the therapists I saw before, though frankly they’re all a blur by now, looks quite concerned. “You are in no shape to be done with PT!” – She declares. “You still need our help! You don’t want to stop now and re-injure your knee. Do you? ” “No, no!” - I quickly surrender. “I don’t want that at all”. “Oh, and by the way, why are you still wearing a brace? You should be weaning yourself off by now!” I roll my eyes in utter exhaustion…

I got just a few more visits and then I won’t have to see those folks again (ever, hopefully). But, I can’t help but wonder whether I’d be pain free by now if it weren’t for their tender loving care. Hmmmm….

H

The 8th of March nostalgia

Ah... The 8th of March. The International Women's day...
I remember this holiday ever since I was a little girl. In Russia, it was a real holiday - day off and everything - and it was somewhat similar to American Valentine's day. The only difference was that it wasn't about sweethearts, it was ALL about us chicks! Husbands and boyfriends dutifully brought flowers to their chosen ones. Children gave their mothers clumsily made greeting cards they spent hours laboring over while holding their breaths and awkwardly wielding crayons or color pens. And mothers were appropriately ferklempt. Heck, the 8th of March served as a Russian (or should I say Soviet? Or maybe even Socialist?) Mother's day as well! It was one day a year when all women felt special even the little ones. When socialist women of the past early in the last century created the day for all women to stand for their rights, I'm sure they didn't mean for it to become just a Spring day to celebrate womanhood with no political agenda attached. I'd say Soviet Russia was kind of skimpy on holidays for its people and the majority of the holidays that we did have had some sort of connection to the Revolution, Communism, Labor or some other such nonsense. So, despite the political origins of the 8th of March, it evolved into a day of "thou shalt love your woman on this day and bring her flowers and other gifts or thou shalt be in huge poo-poo trouble!". At least, I think that was the official motto of the day.

I remember celebrating the holiday as early as elementary school era. The tradition was for the boys in class to give gifts to the girls for the 8th of March. Some time beforehand, the boys would decide on a modest but oh, so thoughtful gift, and collect the money. Considering the kind of gifts we received, I'd say the time "beforehand" ranged from, say, 48 to 24 hours prior to the date. The gift was the same for every girl. The male population in our class had always such serious dignified expressions on their little freckled faces when they were presenting us with those gifts. It was quite proper an affair, I'll have you know!
The one common thread in all those gifts I received (together with my classmates of female persuasion) was that they were completely and utterly useless! :) But it was fun anyway. The first such gift I recall was a tea cup and a saucer of unremarkable design and quality. We were in third grade then, and it was probably some parent's idea of a "lovely/girly" gift. Then, for a few years we were getting inflatable toys (memory is conjuring up a crocodile, a doll and a Cipollino - the main character from an insanely popular in Russia at the time Italian fairy tale by Gianni Rodari, where all characters were fruits and vegetables. Cipollino happens to mean "little onion" which is exactly what he was.) Now, the inflatable toys proved to be most fun as someone came up with an ingenious idea to sign those toys like one would sign a cast or a year book here in the US. I wish I'd saved at least one of those vinyl treasures. I'm sure it would have made a fine fine memento of golden childhood days.

Forward to 10th grade. By then I had transferred to a specialized high school that had a strengthened focus on physics and mechanics. Due to such a technical profile, the girl to boy ratio was in favor of boys, as we had about 20 guys and only 8 girls in our class (which really sucked when it came to giving boys their "very thoughtful and significant" gifts for the 23rd of February, the Soviet Army Day, but that's a whole other story). Such a ratio provided for a much larger budget (or at least we hoped it did), and our gift for that year was a hideously purple lipstick! The only redeeming quality the lipstick had was its berry-like smell and taste. To be grateful and polite, though, I honestly tried to wear that lipstick (at least for some time). I just hope nobody who saw me in that getup was scarred for life.

Ahh.., the 8th of March... Such lovely memories. It may not have been perfect or deeply meaningful, but it was a nice holiday to have growing up. It signified Spring and Love and tenderness and made people mellow out and concentrate on the warmth they had in their lives. Poor Clara Zetkin wouldn't have been proud!

H