So two weeks ago I told you about my rather randy afternoon with my 98 pound physical therapist.
Today was round two.
Only today I was armed. Last night I did a lot of soul searching while tennising with Hubby. (On the court next to us, a father and his 8 year old daughter. Number of times the 3rd grader hit the ball into our court: 0 Number of times I hit the ball into their court: 9)
Since my car accident I've been spending lunch hours, and hours after work at doctor's offices. I've been poked, prodded, stretched, x-rayed, MRIed, and medicated. (more on that in a minute.) I come home and pretty much go to sleep. I'm in pretty constant pain from either the injury or from the treatment.
And let's talk about the pain killers. The first one they put me on made my legs swell so bad I couldn't walk. Not a little water weight...I COULD NOT WALK because I the bottoms of my feet were rounded and my feet and my shins met in a fleshy, watery, balloon way. Think of one of those Right Angles from Geometry class....now fill that with over full water balloons.
The second one gave me heartburn in the middle of the night so awful I'd wake up gagging and vomiting.
The final one...well let's just say that Jamie Lee Curtis would probably just hook me up to an Activia IV if she could, but even that probably wouldn't
I will say this...I have finished two of the three Stieg Larsson books, so there's that...
Anyway, I'm relaying this to Cruella deSkinny and then I recount the effects her most recent treatment gave me:
I couldn't lift my left arm for two days.
I had a blinding headache for two days.
I had bruises on my chest, the back of my head, and my arm.
I finished my litany of woes, in tears, and she looks at me and says,
"These sound like symptoms of depression. Do you have depression?"
These are symptoms of someone who got hurt in a car accident 11 months ago and now no one seems to know what the #(*$%(*&%$^& to do with her! There are the symptoms of someone who is angry, used, and fed up.
Oh, and this is someone who is currently being treated like a rented mule at work, but I'm still too angry about that to talk about it.
Then she said, "Well, I'm not sure I even want to touch you today."
Fine, thinks I, no pain for me today.
Cruella has me hop up on her table, set extra high just for me to hoist my fluffiness higher. Then she begins with the "Does this hurt? Let me JAB THIS IRON FINGERNAIL OF MINE INTO IT HARDER!"
I swear, the woman has fingertips of steel, weighted with lead.
At one point she actually lifted my rib cage and yanked it up to my chin while pushing on a tender spot in my arm pit. Let's ignore the fact that I had some other woman's fist in my armpit and her claw wrapped around the bottom of my ribcage and let's forget that it felt like she was going to lift me off the table and twist me until I split. Let's forget that and try to remember that she didn't want to touch me for fear of hurting me...five seconds earlier.
Afterward, she told me she wanted me to call her office tomorrow and tell her how I felt.
I couldn't help but think of dear Count Rugan after he sucked away a year of Wesley's life on the MACHINE:
How did it make me feel?
I'm pretty sure I'll never make a left hand lane change again...thanks for asking.
Nope, no sympathy from the 98 pound therapist. I'm starting to think she's playing some weird online game like Words with Friends except for PT people only and it's more like, "Where did you poke this person and did they scream?"
Now, about that BOOOOO! A big old Princess Bride sized BOO goes to the woman at the public library yesterday who was there with her small children at the same time Peaches, my daughter, was.
Those of you who know Peaches know that for her entire life she's had a certain flair for clothing and more recently for hair color. Right now her hair is a bright candy apple red. It's not cut in an odd way. She wears it very neatly either in a pony tail or, when her eczema flares up, she wears it in a neat long bob around her face. Yesterday she was wearing a short sleeved t-a pair of white shorts and, because she's Peaches, she was wearing some grey tights under the shorts.
The children must have looked Peaches' way, because Peaches says she waved at them. She's a friendly girl, my girl Peaches. She didn't speak to the children, she just waved in a friendly way and smiled and then went back to looking for books.
The mother, however, took one look at my daughter and gathered her precious perfect children around her and said in a voice loud enough for Peaches to hear THOUGH HER EARBUDS..."no, no children, we don't associate with them."
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