Okay, she's my physical therapist. I wasn't expecting to like her. I was told physical therapists were torturers. I imagined Sayid from Lost when he was "employed" by the Republican Guard. Let the fun begin.
To be honest, I felt sick at the very prospect of going to therapy. After seven weeks, my ankle still hurts. And it's swollen. Between the loss of muscle in my calf and the swelling everywhere below, I look like I'm being held up on my left side by a 4x4 fence post.
Was I ready to have some sadist get his/her kicks at my expense? Not a chance. Yet in the back of my mind, I'm not ready to give up the dream of some day walking again. On my own two feet. Suck it up, Vanessa.
I'm home again, thank God. My foot is elevated and covered in ice. Before I left for my appointment today, I scooted up the stairs on my butt, hopped around to find my clothes, balanced on my right foot while I dried my hair, then cinched up my big black boot and walked to the car on two crutches. By the time I got home little more than an hour later, I was walking on one crutch and taking the stairs on my feet. Hallelujah, sweet freedom! Back to my own bed at night and my craft room during the day. Thank you, Julie. And you helped me accomplish this with only minimal torture.
Crap. I guess that means it's back to cooking and cleaning again, too. On second thought, I might have overdone it today. Maybe I should slow down this recovery just a bit.