I started physiotherapy this week for an injury I incurred over the long weekend. My knee’s been aching constantly, which is annoying me to no end, much like a dripping tap in the middle of the night – only I can’t cover my head with a pillow and make this go away.
Let me start by saying : I have a feeling that my Muay Thai boxing career is coming to an end.
Which gives me mixed emotions… I love boxing. It’s fast-paced, energetic and it a definite stress reliever for me. Picturing certain people as I pound the crap out of a heavy bag is a real relaxant… as I’m sure you can imagine.
But I get hurt a lot.
This never deters me from licking my wounds and getting back in the ring… until now. This injury has hampered my ability to live these past 2 weeks. I can’t sleep because rolling onto my left side hurts. I can’t squat down to play with my children. Walking fast is as painful as childbirth.*** Not to mention the agony of trying to shave my legs (damn shorts…) or climb the stairs in our house 400,000 times a day (why did we buy a house with 3 levels?!?!?!)
But I digress
Enter my physiotherapist – we’ll just call her Torturer (not her real name obviously, but well deserved) – a lovely
15 year old young girl with a wide smile and infectious laugh. She drifts into my little corner of the clinic, obviously either well caffeinated, or my appointment was simply early enough that she had not yet been jaded by the pain-induced cussing and name calling that so often occurs around the clinic.
This girl is familiar to me.
We exchange the obligatory banter… “Hi, I’m so-n-so, I’ll be working with you”….I’m trying to pull the name, the face, the bubbly attitude from the memory bank… nothin’ – GAWD this is annoying.
“When did the pain start?”
“When I hit my leg”
“Is it bruised?” (insert generally concerned naïve smile here)
I lift the leg of my shorts to expose the bruise on my thigh.
Should you be disturbed when the physiotherapist looks genuinely disgusted?
Fast forward to the point that she starts massaging the muscle.
Let’s start where she had me lie down, slide to the very edge of the table/bed thingy, with my leg hanging off to test the range of motion…
Innocent enough, right?
Yeah, then she poked the muscle and I shrieked (oh, does that hurt?) then she started bending my knee while
stabbing me repeatedly with a steak knife massaging the muscle. You can see where she’s getting her pet name from now right? I was getting an arm workout as I gripped the edges of the bed over my head, instead of doing what I really wanted to do.
Grab that skinny little neck and wring it.
Fast forward 20 minutes or so…. Hubby stops by to bring me a latte as I’m hooked up to the IFC machine and then heads off to work. (He loves me).
ANYWAYS – Apparently having mashed up my IT Band and injured my quad would result in me having these knee problems. Silly me, not thinking of that.
SO That night, as
I’m bitching we’re discussing how physio was so terribly painful Hubby says to me
“Well your physiotherapist has certainly come a long way from working at the coffee shop across the street.”
That’s where I knew her from.
And instead of the relief I normally feel here, having figured out that which was nagging me… I’m a bit disturbed.
***I’m totally employing hyperbole here…. it’s obviously not that painful. And considering I had a wonderfully natural back-labour birth, there’s a pretty big threshold to cross there…