Physical Therapy

Every other day I go to physical therapy. Generally, I half-walk, half-limp in to the office feeling pretty good. Then the work starts, and goes on and on and on. I remind myself, “You longed for this. You begged the doctor to let you start early. You wept from frustration and boredom before you could walk again. You pushed yourself to be ‘ahead of the game.'”

The catch is that I never leave feeling good. I feel better the next day, but for the rest of the afternoon and evening on the actual day of therapy (I go in the morning), I feel bad. Really sore. Twinge-y. Counting down the hours until I allow myself to take ibuprofen.

It sucks when you have to cause yourself pain to heal. But from what I understand, there’s no other way with a heel fracture. It’s either a fight forever, or a fight until slowly it’s not anymore. I still don’t know which outcome I’ll achieve, or even how much of that outcome is within my control, so I sigh inside and grimace through the stretching and the climbing and the weight bearing and the ice and pressure machine with which each session ends.

Only, it hurts, godammit. I just want to say for once that it hurts and that absorbing the pain and limping forward stinks.

I’ll never stop trying to recover. And I’ll really, really never stop feeling perpetual relief that I am no longer a fucking invalid.


(not me^. I can’t run…..yet.)

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