What was I thinking, actually paying for physical therapy when there are endless opportunities to stretch and strengthen my ankle right here at home??? Cooking, cleaning, laundry, chasing after kids...the list goes on.
I'm thinking of breaking another limb so I can get a break of a different kind. And this time I'll be in no rush to resume my normal activities.
Showing posts with label physical therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label physical therapy. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Physical Therapy or Cricut Cartridges?
I had my third physical therapy session on Thursday. My understanding was that I would have two sessions per week, but I was never told for how long. I guess as long as I was willing to pay, they'd find something to keep me busy.
The first two visits were helpful, even if the therapists were sometimes rude and condescending. On the third visit I had yet another therapist. She was less insulting, and actually complimented my ability to walk with my new cane. But I can't say she was especially helpful. For the most part she had me repeating the same exercises I was doing at home. At least I think that's what she had me doing. She was busy with three patients at once, so I was never quite sure what her instructions were before she was on to the next person. And she didn't seem to know what I had done previously even though she had my chart in front of her. Based on the few questions she asked, I guess that's because the previous therapist failed to document much of anything.
By the end of the session, when I wasn't given any new exercises for home (heck, I wasn't even told to continue the ones I was already doing), I had pretty much decided I could finish my rehab at home in front of the tv. And as I was paying my copay on the way out, it occurred to me that for what I paid out-of-pocket for each visit, I could be buying myself a new Cricut cartridge. Now that would be money well spent.
The first two visits were helpful, even if the therapists were sometimes rude and condescending. On the third visit I had yet another therapist. She was less insulting, and actually complimented my ability to walk with my new cane. But I can't say she was especially helpful. For the most part she had me repeating the same exercises I was doing at home. At least I think that's what she had me doing. She was busy with three patients at once, so I was never quite sure what her instructions were before she was on to the next person. And she didn't seem to know what I had done previously even though she had my chart in front of her. Based on the few questions she asked, I guess that's because the previous therapist failed to document much of anything.
By the end of the session, when I wasn't given any new exercises for home (heck, I wasn't even told to continue the ones I was already doing), I had pretty much decided I could finish my rehab at home in front of the tv. And as I was paying my copay on the way out, it occurred to me that for what I paid out-of-pocket for each visit, I could be buying myself a new Cricut cartridge. Now that would be money well spent.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Demoralized, But Not Defeated
Today I walked into my second physical therapy session feeling pretty darned proud of myself. I left feeling totally lame (yeah, I mean it both ways).
A week ago I went for my first session. Just five days earlier, I had gotten the okay from my surgeon to start bearing weight on my leg gradually. No more than 25 to 50 pounds for the first week, he said. The doctor had instructed me that after the first week was behind me I could start trying to wean myself from the boot and crutches, one at a time. He seemed to indicate that within a few weeks I might have accomplished one or the other, but not necessarily both. In light of the weight restrictions, I was quite surprised when on day one of therapy I was told to try walking without my crutches. According to the doctor it was still too soon to put my full weight on my left leg, but I did as I was told (frankly, I wasn't thinking about the doctor's instructions at that point). The physical therapist worked with me through a series of exercises, showed me how to walk on one crutch, and advised me to wear my boot for protection if I was going outside my house.
Back home I started doing my exercises twice daily, just as I was told. I stopped wearing the boot almost immediately (I HATED that thing!), and within a couple of days I ditched the crutches, too. Try as I might to increase the flexibility and strength of my ankle, about all I could do was hobble around the house. Still I thought I was doing pretty well for someone who hadn't walked in seven weeks.
My second physical therapy appointment was scheduled for this morning, less than two weeks after my visit to the doctor. And I wondered...should I wear the boot? Walk in on crutches? No, I decided there would be no steps backward for me. I was going to limp in on my own two feet with my head held high, and if the therapist reprimanded me for not taking the proper precautions this early in the game, so be it.
Little did I know I'd have a different therapist today. Maybe she thought I was several months post-op. After all, I wasn't wearing a boot or walking with crutches. Or maybe I just looked like someone who needed a verbal smackdown. But almost as soon as the introductions were made, the belittling began. It wasn't so much what she said as how she said it. "Is that as far as you can flex your ankle? Your goal should be that the left ankle bends as far as the right!!!" "If you keep walking with that limp, you're going to have hip and knee problems, too!!!" Lady, did I just walk into physical therapy or a faith healing session??? Did I miss the part where, through the power of God, you smacked my forehead with the heel of your hand and told me to throw down my crutches and walk??? I had been doing everything I was told. But if I hadn't been told yet, I had no way of knowing what to do. And if I already knew the proper steps to total recovery, would I be paying out of my own nearly-empty pockets for the privilege of driving out of my way to sit in a crowded room practicing what I could do in the privacy of my home, for free???!!!
I did learn a few things today: The stride I take with my right leg should match the left; a cane will make it much easier for me to walk correctly; I should walk as slowly as necessary so that I don't limp; and I should have known all this before I entered the Hallowed Halls of Physical Therapy.
Smack me down as many times as you want. I'll get back up. And when I have the strength, I'll stand firmly on my left foot and kick your ass.
A week ago I went for my first session. Just five days earlier, I had gotten the okay from my surgeon to start bearing weight on my leg gradually. No more than 25 to 50 pounds for the first week, he said. The doctor had instructed me that after the first week was behind me I could start trying to wean myself from the boot and crutches, one at a time. He seemed to indicate that within a few weeks I might have accomplished one or the other, but not necessarily both. In light of the weight restrictions, I was quite surprised when on day one of therapy I was told to try walking without my crutches. According to the doctor it was still too soon to put my full weight on my left leg, but I did as I was told (frankly, I wasn't thinking about the doctor's instructions at that point). The physical therapist worked with me through a series of exercises, showed me how to walk on one crutch, and advised me to wear my boot for protection if I was going outside my house.
Back home I started doing my exercises twice daily, just as I was told. I stopped wearing the boot almost immediately (I HATED that thing!), and within a couple of days I ditched the crutches, too. Try as I might to increase the flexibility and strength of my ankle, about all I could do was hobble around the house. Still I thought I was doing pretty well for someone who hadn't walked in seven weeks.
My second physical therapy appointment was scheduled for this morning, less than two weeks after my visit to the doctor. And I wondered...should I wear the boot? Walk in on crutches? No, I decided there would be no steps backward for me. I was going to limp in on my own two feet with my head held high, and if the therapist reprimanded me for not taking the proper precautions this early in the game, so be it.
Little did I know I'd have a different therapist today. Maybe she thought I was several months post-op. After all, I wasn't wearing a boot or walking with crutches. Or maybe I just looked like someone who needed a verbal smackdown. But almost as soon as the introductions were made, the belittling began. It wasn't so much what she said as how she said it. "Is that as far as you can flex your ankle? Your goal should be that the left ankle bends as far as the right!!!" "If you keep walking with that limp, you're going to have hip and knee problems, too!!!" Lady, did I just walk into physical therapy or a faith healing session??? Did I miss the part where, through the power of God, you smacked my forehead with the heel of your hand and told me to throw down my crutches and walk??? I had been doing everything I was told. But if I hadn't been told yet, I had no way of knowing what to do. And if I already knew the proper steps to total recovery, would I be paying out of my own nearly-empty pockets for the privilege of driving out of my way to sit in a crowded room practicing what I could do in the privacy of my home, for free???!!!
I did learn a few things today: The stride I take with my right leg should match the left; a cane will make it much easier for me to walk correctly; I should walk as slowly as necessary so that I don't limp; and I should have known all this before I entered the Hallowed Halls of Physical Therapy.
Smack me down as many times as you want. I'll get back up. And when I have the strength, I'll stand firmly on my left foot and kick your ass.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Pain, Pain, Go Away...
...you'll be back another day.
I feel an apology is in order even before I start my latest rant. I've whined plenty about this broken ankle. But after almost eight weeks of agony, how much pain is one wimpy woman expected to take? Menopause, with its associated hot flashes and "mood swings" (aka psychotic breaks), was enough to deal with, or so I thought. Then in the midst of that came the tumble down the stairs that gave me my first-ever broken bones.
Six weeks post surgery and I was starting to feel I might actually walk again. Or at least limp from place to place. Today I decided I might be pushing myself too hard in my desperation to get back to my normal life (not sure why I'm in a hurry--I rather enjoy sitting in front of the tv all day "incapacitated"). My ankle ached after my morning exercises, so I thought I'd go soak it. In the pool. While laying on a float. Yeah, that's my kind of therapy.
I had (possibly foolishly) been trying to walk without assistance. Because every muscle, ligament and tendon in my ankle and foot was crying out to me to stop the insanity, I decided to break from the stoicism and actually use one crutch as I worked my way to the bathroom to change into my swimsuit. Mission accomplished, I set my crutch against the sink while I brushed my teeth. How this happened I'll never understand, but the crutch slipped and slammed into one--and only one--spot: my extremely sore and swollen ankle. Pardon my language, but it hurt like a son-of-a-mother. I actually cried like a baby. My dear, sweet husband came to my rescue and helped me back to my seat (yes, after eight weeks of living there, the prime spot in front of the tv is now and forever mine).
Certain my bone was protruding from my flesh, I was actually afraid to look at the damage. Mark convinced me that, as much as I was in pain, there was really no way an aluminum crutch could have seriously re-injured my ankle unless someone had bashed me with it. So I iced my ankle for a while, cried a little longer out of the frustration of it all, then headed outside for some real physical therapy in the form of a nice, relaxing dip in the pool.
Please, dear Lord, save me from myself before it's too late.
I feel an apology is in order even before I start my latest rant. I've whined plenty about this broken ankle. But after almost eight weeks of agony, how much pain is one wimpy woman expected to take? Menopause, with its associated hot flashes and "mood swings" (aka psychotic breaks), was enough to deal with, or so I thought. Then in the midst of that came the tumble down the stairs that gave me my first-ever broken bones.
Six weeks post surgery and I was starting to feel I might actually walk again. Or at least limp from place to place. Today I decided I might be pushing myself too hard in my desperation to get back to my normal life (not sure why I'm in a hurry--I rather enjoy sitting in front of the tv all day "incapacitated"). My ankle ached after my morning exercises, so I thought I'd go soak it. In the pool. While laying on a float. Yeah, that's my kind of therapy.
I had (possibly foolishly) been trying to walk without assistance. Because every muscle, ligament and tendon in my ankle and foot was crying out to me to stop the insanity, I decided to break from the stoicism and actually use one crutch as I worked my way to the bathroom to change into my swimsuit. Mission accomplished, I set my crutch against the sink while I brushed my teeth. How this happened I'll never understand, but the crutch slipped and slammed into one--and only one--spot: my extremely sore and swollen ankle. Pardon my language, but it hurt like a son-of-a-mother. I actually cried like a baby. My dear, sweet husband came to my rescue and helped me back to my seat (yes, after eight weeks of living there, the prime spot in front of the tv is now and forever mine).
Certain my bone was protruding from my flesh, I was actually afraid to look at the damage. Mark convinced me that, as much as I was in pain, there was really no way an aluminum crutch could have seriously re-injured my ankle unless someone had bashed me with it. So I iced my ankle for a while, cried a little longer out of the frustration of it all, then headed outside for some real physical therapy in the form of a nice, relaxing dip in the pool.
Please, dear Lord, save me from myself before it's too late.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My New Best Friend
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
