Today, I got a visit from my physical therapist, unannounced but not surprising since I'd done a poor job of communicating with him and he is motivated and persistent. He caught me finishing lunch, and while I figured he was just checking on me, he actually had plans to run me through the mill, substantiated by his expression, coupled with his opening statement of "I don't want to make you puke, but..................". He wanted to help me work on my cardio, so we headed for the stairs. It was the first time I had been told to do stairs since high school wrestling practice. I worked it as best as I could, not exactly blowing chunks but taxing my diminishing leg muscles all the same. I do believe I would find total system failure more likely due to muscle fatigue than to exhaustion. I did some quadriceps lifts that challenged my balance more than anything else.
We did some heel walking (pathetic) and toe walking (worse than pathetic) and some toe tapping dance step exercises in the kitchen. Amy was brought in to see what we were doing and the conversation came to an abrupt halt when she remembered a question she had: If Tracy falls, how do I get him back up?
No problem, let's demonstrate. So they amble and I stroll into the living room, Amy shoo's the dust bunnies under the couch and clears the floor, hardwood, creating ample space for me to flop. The PT secures a belt around my belly and I'm ready to go..........Down. I already know what I can and cannot do, so my mind is inwardly expressing panic while outwardly I play nonchalant. Only my eyes give away my terror and only Amy sees my expression. I bend over and prop myself on the couch seat with my right hand. My left is nearly useless and acts as a fake support. I kneel down. I put my right hand on the floor and slowly collapse to the oak. I am told to lie on my back, so I extend left. Not bad. I relax myself and my right arm goes to my side. I repeat the process with my left arm, rolling my shoulder back and..... pain like an axe cut rips from my upper arm! Ten on a ten scale and NOT going away. I pull my arm up over my chest and ride it out. I'm not sure I'd volunteer for such pain if the end result were a baby boy. Amy rushes around to slip a pillow under my left shoulder, helping to relieve some stress as the PT, unsure and in shock, stands back. After a half dozen minutes I'm able to do more than moan and the ambiance of my living room returns to a normal hue. (I really see red as my blood boils with my agony). Another five goes by and it's time to get me to my feet. I enlist Amy's help to get me up on my right arm, and the PT grabs the belt and lifts, rotating until my knees are beneath me. From there, I use the couch, pushing my face into the cushioned seat and locking out my neck as a support while I put up a foot, then the other. About now I'm really glad my couch is leather rather than an old, cloth, skanky sofa, the nesting place of a thousand butts. So now I am standing, safe and sore, tired and dejected as I realize that the question posed has been answered. What does it take to get me on my feet after I fall? Some variation of two men and a boy- until my right arm gives out, when a hoist must come into play- scary stuff.
We did some heel walking (pathetic) and toe walking (worse than pathetic) and some toe tapping dance step exercises in the kitchen. Amy was brought in to see what we were doing and the conversation came to an abrupt halt when she remembered a question she had: If Tracy falls, how do I get him back up?
No problem, let's demonstrate. So they amble and I stroll into the living room, Amy shoo's the dust bunnies under the couch and clears the floor, hardwood, creating ample space for me to flop. The PT secures a belt around my belly and I'm ready to go..........Down. I already know what I can and cannot do, so my mind is inwardly expressing panic while outwardly I play nonchalant. Only my eyes give away my terror and only Amy sees my expression. I bend over and prop myself on the couch seat with my right hand. My left is nearly useless and acts as a fake support. I kneel down. I put my right hand on the floor and slowly collapse to the oak. I am told to lie on my back, so I extend left. Not bad. I relax myself and my right arm goes to my side. I repeat the process with my left arm, rolling my shoulder back and..... pain like an axe cut rips from my upper arm! Ten on a ten scale and NOT going away. I pull my arm up over my chest and ride it out. I'm not sure I'd volunteer for such pain if the end result were a baby boy. Amy rushes around to slip a pillow under my left shoulder, helping to relieve some stress as the PT, unsure and in shock, stands back. After a half dozen minutes I'm able to do more than moan and the ambiance of my living room returns to a normal hue. (I really see red as my blood boils with my agony). Another five goes by and it's time to get me to my feet. I enlist Amy's help to get me up on my right arm, and the PT grabs the belt and lifts, rotating until my knees are beneath me. From there, I use the couch, pushing my face into the cushioned seat and locking out my neck as a support while I put up a foot, then the other. About now I'm really glad my couch is leather rather than an old, cloth, skanky sofa, the nesting place of a thousand butts. So now I am standing, safe and sore, tired and dejected as I realize that the question posed has been answered. What does it take to get me on my feet after I fall? Some variation of two men and a boy- until my right arm gives out, when a hoist must come into play- scary stuff.
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