The Miracle of Physiotherapy

In my pre-osteoarthritic days, the small exercises I now do three times a day to rebuild the muscles laid waste by surgery and bed rest would not have warmed me up for a yoga class.

Given how difficult it is for me to do these small movements, it tells you just how much work it takes to come back from hip surgery.

The miracle is these small movements work. I got my new exercises on September 6 - this past Tuesday. The first time I tried a couple of the tougher ones - the ones where I have to bear my weight on the operated leg and hold the other leg out in front, or to the side - I could barely do two repetitions. This morning's session I graduated to ten. I have to be up to twenty reps by the time I see my physiotherapist again on the 23rd. I think I can do that.

My operated leg feels stronger with every physio session. I feel the blood circulating more freely around the joint. The site of the operation feels less congested, less tight.

Every day I have more faith that I can be normal again. I can believe that I haven't just switched one malaise (osteoarthritis) for another (surgery-induced disability that saves me pain but leaves me limping for the rest of my life).

My surgeon understandably emphasized in my pre-operation education the dangers of blood clots and infections, the importance of pain relief and weaning off opioid pain killers. All of that was useful information, but it would have been good, too, to hear things like: "You will need to learn to walk again" and "You can restore yourself to your pre-arthritic level of activity, but you will have to work like a bastard to get there."

*******

"Can you give me a reason," asked the Ruler of a small but pleasant realm, failing to contain her temper this time with the head Wordsmith, "why I should not just order your execution?" 

She paced angrily back and forth in her chambers, waving her arms to channel her rage, knocking things off her desk and shelves with the long fabric trails of her sleeves. Everyone crept back a bit to get out of her way.

"You have been wasting my time for weeks now. First you said you could not possibly name the Thing because you did not know what it did. Now you are saying the Thing shouldn't do anything because that would wreck the brand you are developing. And a stupid song!

"I did not ask for a song. I did not ask for a brand. I asked for a NAME...." The Ruler pulled on the bell cord that summoned the palace guards.

"O great Ruler," said the Wizard, likely the only person then in the room who could speak and still live to see the next day, "the Wordsmiths have been working on the name, but nowadays a name is not enough. You need a backstory, a context and an appealing public image. The Thing needs a narrative that helps people understand it, like it, and believe it is useful. 

"I think the advice of the Wordsmiths is that they need to work these details out before we set the Thing out in the world to do whatever it is that it does." 

All the Wordsmiths nodded at what the Wizard said though none dared speak.

The Ruler stopped pacing. At that moment, five members of the palace guard filed into the Ruler's chambers. 

"They can work out their details in the dungeon," said the Ruler. "Guards, take these five and lock them up."

Griping and whining, the Wordsmiths were taken away by the guards.

"Hank," called the Ruler to the head Wordsmith as he went out the door, "you have one week to get your brand in order and your stupid little song."

Hank, terrified, did not reply.

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think," said the Wizard to the Ruler once all the Wordsmiths and guards were gone from the chambers.

"They won't have any distractions in the dungeon, and I'll make sure they have all the food and light they need to stay productive," said the Ruler, "but the slow pace is wearing me down.

"I want that Thing," she said, pointing to the Thing, "named, branded, whatever, and out of here. It smells bad and the noises it makes are irritating."

The Thing had sat through all of the drama in the Ruler's chambers without reacting. But now the Ruler and the Wizard saw that it seemed in some distress. It was choking and gagging, like a cat struggling with a hairball. After one big final cough, the Thing spat up a sizeable, perfectly clear, stunningly gorgeous gem.

The Wizard reached into the Thing's pen, grabbed the gem and held it up for the Ruler to see.

"Holy cow," said the Wizard, "so this is what it does." He handed the gem to the Ruler. 

She weighed it in her hand, impressed.

"Even the wretched Wordsmiths should be able to do something with this," she said.

To be continued ....

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen