From Mountains to Molehills

 Sometimes my physical therapist treats me while her hair is in curlers.  Sometimes her children are asleep in the next room.  Sometimes we've both had a couple of glasses of wine prior to treatment.  She's almost always in her pajamas. Most of the time we are both laughing uncontrollably.

Just a smattering of photos from our lifetime of friendship...

 You see, I'm living with my physical therapist.  She is also the person in my life that I have no memories without.  As a small child, Beth's family lived one door down from my family on San Vincente St. in Salinas until we moved away.....to Greenwood Pl. which is half a block away from where we began.  We toddled together, posed for first day of kindergarten pictures together, fought over Barbies, did each others' hair, choreographed elaborate dances for everything from Grease and Fame to Jesus Christ Superstsar and Godspell (sometimes on rollerskates, as in the case of Sound of Music), practiced piano lessons together, and often got into the bickering fights that are usually reserved for blood sisters.  I'm fairly certain we walked to school almost everyday together from kindergarten through eighth grade at which point her mother would drop us off at Salinas High School on the way to her teaching job.  Then we lived together for our first two years at UC Santa Barbara.  Since college we have kept in touch sporadically, but no matter how much time passes between conversations we automatically pick up where we left off and are soon enduring fits of laughter and catching each other up on our lives.

I flew down to Southern California a little over a week ago.  Beth had urged me to take advantage of her expertise in physical therapy and stay with her and her family for a visit to boot.  I could feel that my body had finally relaxed enough to be able to have someone work on it.  After seeing the improvement following the visit with physical therapist in Seattle I was anxious to get here and get to work.  Little did I know that healing the pain would involve way more pain.  Oh, the agonizing irony.
  My room here in Orange County doubles as my physical therapy chamber.  I've ousted a 6 year old girl from her room and here is what I see on the walls when falling asleep or being worked on by Beth:  the pinkest of pink paint, three different Justin Bieber posters looking down at me on the single bed, Cinderella and her birds on one wall, a poster with two animated dolphins jumping out of the ocean with the phrase "Making Waves" under them, several quotes from what I assume to be Bieber songs ("Feel it, Believe it, Dream it, Be it"--JB), and the words "Girls should be two things: Classy and Fabulous".  Hello Kitty waves at me from one corner. This makes the Holly Hobby wallpaper I had in my room at Sophia's age seem blase. There is a three story doll house on one side of the bed that my 6 year-old self covets.  The dolls inside resemble exotic Barbie and Ken dolls on steroids.  Tiny white cowgirl boots await their owner to choose them for an outing. It's the 6 year-old American dream.  My 39 year-old self finds it endearing and bizarre at the same time. 

We still laugh just as much....and I still have chocolate on my double chin.

    Beth has been treating me every day I've been here, minus two days of respite.  As ready as I was to be treated upon arriving, I now know what is involved in each treatment and have to brace myself for each round in the Pink Room.  I lay down on the single bed and Beth lays into me with her elbow or forearm, trying to work my tight muscles into any state of relaxation.  Because of my twisted pelvis, many of my muscles froze up and were not used, causing muscles on the opposite side of my body to do all the work.  Beth is "reawakening" and trying to engage muscles that were out of work for many weeks.  Lazy sons of guns. I don't think I can really do justice to how painful this process can be, but at times it feels like my leg is being crushed in a trash compactor.  I'm fairly certain this is not the case, but it sure feels like it.  I look to The Bieb and smiling dolphins for help or sympathy, but he continues to look pouty/sultry and they continue to smile.  Beth relentlessly works on my ground meat muscles while I laugh-cry on the child bed.

I love my physical therapist....

  The best part about this private treatment is that I can really express my true emotions during this treatment without feeling self-conscious.  Sometimes I'm laughing uncontrollably at the mixture of tickling and pain that Beth impinges on my muscles.  Sometimes I'm just squeezing my eyes shut, sucking air through my teeth, spewing everything but curse words ("Mother Scratcher" and "Fa fa fa fa fa fa frick!" are among my favorites---there are children in the house after all), and begging, hoping, and wishing for it all to be done.  I also wonder (and occasionally ask aloud):  Beth, when did you get such pointy elbows? Beth, when did you sharpen your ulna? Beth, are you paying me back for being a brat when we were kids together? It turns out that none of these are the case, it just feels like some sort of punishment for something I don't even know I've done.
  I don't think I'm the only one benefiting from these physical therapy sessions:  Beth is constantly laughing with and at me.  As painful as it is for me, we are having a blast.  She can laugh, giggle, inflict more pressure, tell me to buck up, and say all the things she'd ever want to say to regular patients.  It's pretty much a win-win.

Good night, roomies!! 

  The good news is that the therapy is working.  Between daily sessions with Beth and a regular exercise regimen, I'm slowly working my muscles back into shape and waking them up from their slumber.  My limp is ebbing away at a leisurely pace, but easing nonetheless. I'm awed that I could go from feeling so strong and on top of the world, hiking 20 miles a day from mountain to mountain, to feeling so weak and incompetent (*not to be confused with incontinent, y'all*) and feeling fatigued after stepping onto a curb 20 times in a row.  It's incredibly frustrating and disheartening.  The thing that makes all of this bearable is that none of this is permanent damage.  I can and will heal from this with no lasting effects and I WILL be able to finish the Pacific Crest Trail, go on my Denali Ladies Ski trips every spring, raft the Grand Canyon, bicycle-tour Europe or any other dang thing I want to do.  Eventually. I feel so grateful for that!  No, this is not what I had in mind for this summer, looking at photos from my hike are bittersweet, but in the bigger picture I had a grand experience, have made new friends, have had the chance to spend really quality time with old friends and see some really kick-ass music.

  So for now I'm staying in Southern California, enjoying the company of my bestest friend, hanging with her family, cooking dinner for them, doing my exercises and enduring cruel/kind treatments, making jokes so bad that 6 year-olds roll their eyes at me, and falling asleep under the watchful gaze of The Bieb.  I'm also taking applications from anyone who would like for me to convalesce at their house.  I'm beyond the point where I need someone to get every glass of wine for me, but am still rather stationary and useless.  How could you resist?