I am surprised what a wide variety of
people I meet at PT. All week, it’s looked to me like nearly everybody
there (as a patient) was an athlete with a sports injury. One man
looked at me kindly as I struggled to lift my broom handle (while he
was doing something with one of the weight machines, which was set to
125 pounds) and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I’ve been coming
here since Christmas.”
Last Friday, on the other hand, I was the only one in the room who wasn’t
a Senior Citizen—and most of them were doing things with heavy weights
and machines while once I again I sweated, trying to lift that blasted
broom handle just a little higher.
thought of using a broom handle was really quite clever. What you do
is, you hold the broom handle with both hands, palms down, starting
with both hands against your legs as you stand. Then, you try to raise
the broom handle, keeping your arms straight and in front of you. Your
good arm will do pretty much all the work, while your injured arm kind
of goes along for the ride. The next step is to do the same thing, but
with palms up. Now your injured arm can’t depend on the other one to do
all the work—very tough.
I never thought that lifting a broom handle would get me to work up a sweat. Anyway,
as I stood there directing unspoken epithets at the broom handle, I
noticed that the background music playing over the loudspeakers was
sort and soothing, perfect if one had just come from a tough day at the
office, but not exactly inspirational when one is fighting to regain
one’s arm and career!
of the Senior Citizens—I think he had had hip or knee surgery—was
slowly and painfully trying to walk across the room, while the soft and
soothing music droned on, sounding very like what we hear at funerals
and viewings. All I could think was, “Dear Lord, we’re all dying in here!”
dropped the BBH (Blasted Broom Handle) next to the wall and went over
to the head PT, who is also the owner of the practice. Now, this was
probably a bad idea. Turns
out, we belong to the same synagogue, and I hadn’t recognized him until
last week, which probably offended him (and rightly so!). And now I was
about to offend his taste in music.
“Um, excuse me, “ I began bravely. “Um,
this music is pleasant and soothing and all that, but the thing is—we
need something a little more inspirational in here. I’m sorry, but
funeral music is not motivating (unless you’re suicidal). We need something like—the theme from “Rocky!”
He didn’t even blink.
“I could sing,” he said.
“That’s got to be better than this,” I replied.
I wonder if he’ll let me in the door on Monday.