Having knee surgery is a precursor to this lovely thing called physical therapy. And by lovely I mean pain inducing torture by the happiest, cutest, most mellow creature known to man.
My first “let’s start it easy” session began with a simple background story as to the origin of the injury that led me to hobbling on a pair of crutches.
I’ve started leading with a very dead pan “Oh that. I injured the knee saving the life of a drowning child.” Not because it isn’t true but because I am since finding humor in people’s expressions when I say it. Since my overweight and slow appearance clearly scream of a more “I fell down stepping off the curb” type of story.
Story told and it’s time to get up on the table and reveal my wrinkly, starting to get hairy, weak leg. I might mention now that I am surrounded by elderly visor and track suit wearing patients clearly able to kick my ass should a battle commence.
Once upon the table it is time to bend the knee. You know. The knee that is now operated by some angel of heaven’s ligament? Yep. That’s the one. And we want to get that sucker to 90 degrees. And that excruciating pain you feel? That’s just right. You know you have fluid and swelling and the such.
I’m slightly entertained by the leopard print wearing elder of mine, who if we are being honest could not kick my arse in any kind of fight, being instructed on how to do a proper hip thrust by her physical torturist. (Up and off and hold for 5 if you are wondering)
So I get a bit offended when she starts smirking at me as I gasp and realize the electrodes attached to my thigh are now pulsating and firing up my muscle. “Does that hurt?” I am finding out is just code for “If it hurts it’s working.”
The best part of physical torture is having my leg out of the brace and feeling the sweet sweet freezing ice gel working to relieve some of the damaged progress we have accomplished in this first session.
The session they say is the easiest.