Physical Therapy Hurts, But At Least It’s Painful

By Bob Wire, 10-09-08

	Caption: "Is this therapy session going to have a happy ending? OW!"

People have been stopping me on the street, saying hey, Bob, when are you going to write more blogs about your shoulder surgery? I mean, culture and music and politics are interesting and all, but that shoulder stuff…fascinating!

I will assume that these people aren’t being ironic, so here’s the dish on physical therapy: it’s tedious, enforced masochism with a little guilt mixed in if I don’t do it right, or often enough. Kind of like oral sex.

At this point I’m still in the “assisted/passive” phase, which means I’m using one arm to move the other around in certain ways that are designed to steadily increase my range of motion. And it’s working. My left arm, the one with the recovering shoulder, is almost flexible enough to reach over and punch the shit out of the right arm when it’s sleeping.

My physical therapist seems too kind for this line of work, and doles out plenty of sympathy with the punishment when I see her a couple times a week. Of course, when she’s cranking my arm this way and that, she can’t tell when she’s hit the limit unless I cringe in pain. “Does that hurt?” she asks, pulling my left hand up between my shoulder blades.

“Oh, no,” I tell her. “I always wet my pants when I’m happy. Jesus, officer, aren’t you going to read me my rights first?”

The only exercise I’m doing that actually feels good is one where I lay my right forearm on the kitchen counter and rest my head on it. Then I let my left arm dangle heavily, and gently swing it back and forth. I probably look like I’m deep in despair, because this move always elicits sympathy from my family. Plus I’m usually groaning, which adds to the effect.

The dog, however, thinks I’m offering him a treat and runs over to lick my dangling hand. I always flick him hard on the nose and tell him to beat it, but his memory seems to be shorter than that of a federal grand jury. Dumb mutt.

Still, he has unwittingly contributed to my convalescence. I’m supposed to use a broomstick or a dowel or something to help my right hand push my left hand out to the side, since I don’t have the wingspan of Michael Phelps. I’ve found that Houdini’s new foot-long rawhide bone is perfect. I can grip the knobs in each hand, and it’s just the right length. Last night I was lying on the living room floor doing these stretches and Houdini was sitting nearby watching, whining softly. I don’t need the pressure, so I started growling at him. His whining got louder and more insistent. I kept stretching, and bared my teeth and dropped the growl an octave to show him I meant business.

Just at that moment Rusty walked into the living room, surveyed the scene, and shook his head in dismay. Then he went into my bathroom and flushed all my painkillers down the toilet.

I went to see my surgeon last week for my six-week post-op check up. I sat in an exam room, shirtless, for a half hour. Finally, he came in, studied my chart momentarily, and grabbed my left hand. He then proceeded to crank on in like I was a Hi-Lift jack, causing me to blurt, “HOLY INFANT SO TENDER AND MILD!” or words to that effect.

“Well, it seems a little stiff still,” he said, ignoring my weeping and blubbering. He stood me up. “Push against my hand.”

“AAAAUUGH,” I yelled in my best Charlie Brown voice.

“Hmm. Okay, push the other way.”

“NO NO! PLEASE GAWWWD! MOMMY!” The hair in my armpits fell out.

“Okay,” he said, picking up the chart. “Things seem to be progressing as they should. Go ahead and put your skirt back on, Nancy, and I’ll see you in six weeks when we start strength training.”

“I’ll bring a spare diaper.” I implored him to write me another scrip for painkillers, as I planned on taking a handful right in the pharmacy.

At least I’m able to drive myself there now. My good bud Steve was kind enough to loan me his Subaru with an automatic, so I’ve been able to get around. This is good news to Barb, who discovered over the past six weeks how much of my time I spend running around on maddening little missions and errands. She deserves a medal for picking up all the slack while I’ve been recuperating. She can always find the time to go fetch me a nice bottle of gin. We’ve all got clean clothes, and the kids are fed and delivered to their various activities with nary a complaint from her.

Of course, she has no trouble keeping me in line now, either. All she has to do to get my full compliance is to take hold of my left hand and say, “So, how far can you reach this way?” My bung hole immediately tightens up hard enough to cut a 16-penny nail, and I will go along with anything she says.

“Here, take my wallet! Just don’t bend me!”

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