January 25, 2012
Today, I went to physical therapy by prescription whereas for months I have been ignoring the prodding of my family. It’s an interesting thing, “doctor’s orders,” how it can be the coup de grâce of a persistent disregard of “sound advice.” And get this: I think therapy is going to be a tremendous help in untangling my gait and in preventing an atrophy of my left leg. Who’d of thought? Well, there’s my family . . . common sense . . . medical precedent . . .
But other than that . . . fine, let’s do this thing. Twice a week. And every day at home while consulting my exercise sheet. I predict my nemesis shall be the “Angry Cat Stretch.” [see PT sheet]
January 26, 2012
Today, I performed my physical therapy at home. Performed. Ha! Like the world’s worst circus act kind of performance. Like a squirrel in the last phases of road-dying before officially becoming road-kill kind of performance. Like DiCaprio in Romeo + Juliet . . . well, you get the idea.
It can only get better because it cannot get any worse.
I might have just jinxed myself. Tomorrow will tell.
January 29, 2012
I did not jinx myself. I can sense, if not palpably then psychologically, strength returning. Strength returning! What a vital phrase. The boxer on the seven count rising with a grin. This is no springtime sally into a new season of viridescence, no gradual babble toward a meager brook waterfall. This is strength—vital not vernal. The grizzly sloughing its deep hibernation and prowling for nourishment, be it flesh or flower, a return of strength its only object.
Back to a humbler reality. I’m no boxer. I’m no grizzly. Besides, I’d rather be green than grizzled.
I am weak but getting stronger.
There is one exercise, however, that I cannot perform unaided as yet; and in a traditionally functioning body, it would require the fewest calories, the least exertion—my treasonous left ankle refuses to flex my pathetic left foot. [Note: this is not the Angry Cat Stretch which I predicted to give me the most fits.] This inflexibility is a source of giggles (glad to serve some purpose) for the wife and the son as they watch me attempt to achieve this practically paralytic feat. <<<<<<<< a pun! (Glad to serve some purpose.)
I stare at the bastard foot willing it to move, emptying my bag of other people’s tricks—Uri Geller, Obi Wan Kenobi, Criss Angel. Nothing. I’m not discounting telekinesis, mind you, just my own paranormal capabilities.
Another technique I try is to mock my left ankle by showing it how ridiculously simple is the thing it can’t do. My method? Flex my right foot, whistling whimsically, back, forth, up, down, and for flourish, a roll about, and for max scoffery, a yawn or two while checking my watch. I don’t own a watch. I think we can all agree that to check an actual watch is much less derisive than checking an imaginary one. Needless to say, this technique is useless.
Ah well. It’s only been a few days. Speedy recoveries are for HGH sluggers and the T-1000 cyborg from Terminator 2 doing that liquid metal regeneration thingy.
Maybe the ref only just started counting. Maybe I’m a fat enough bear to hit the snooze button once or twice. Maybe come spring . . . who knows? . . . maybe I’ll do that liquid metal thingy.