As a coach, I use this saying every now and then - no pain; no gain. Usually it's referring to lactic acid buildup during fitness drills and the power and strength that results from it. OH YOU'RE TIRED?! SORE? SUCK IT UP. NO PAIN. NO GAIN.
Well, my bloggy literates, today this phrase haunted me.
I had a new Physical Therapist today. She was really pretty, really nice, and seemed to really know her stuff. I liked her a lot. For 2 minutes.
After a brief intro of myself and my injury this witch took me to new levels of pain. "Your extension is not where it should be," she said. Wait what? Haven't you read my post? I'm pulling a miraculous recovery. I am awesome. I am on AP's level. "Oh," I said. Then she took her dainty little palm and dug miles into my quad. Hollllly everything. It took my breath away. And not in the rom-com knee-buckling way. It felt like my leg was being smashed by a billion boulders double my size and weight. There was no way that it was just the hand of this cute woman. She did this to me for 4 hours. Possibly just a few minutes. But it felt long enough. Then she dug fingers in places on my leg I didn't even know existed. The back of my leg screamed in agony as she held it tight in her armpit and forced her metacarpals behind my poor, recovering knee. WTF?! Is she trying to screw me over with my recovery? I've NEVER had to do this. "Wow, that's pretty tender," I said. "Good thing you're tough," was her response.
She knows my weakness is wanting to personify boldness. How appropriate.
The massage from hell finally ended and I got hooked up to the stimulant patches. No problem. I've done these tons. I usually just sit back and read a magazine during. They gave me no magazine. I didn't realize I'd be reading blazing dots of torture instead.
Ya. She turned those bad boys up so high on my leg, my quad was literally shaking. "That's what we want," the devil PT told me. "We want to get a full contraction. Push! Push down!" If this is any indication of child birth, I'm not sure about my future. I wanted to strangle this woman. I couldn't push any harder. Just shut up and let me push my way. I kept lifting my head to check out my thigh, and my eyes bugged out at the radioactivity taking place on my own body. By the time I finished, I had crazy red patches up and down my leg. I wanted my old PT back.
It gets worse. Ever seen someone on the recumbent bike at the gym? Let me guess. They're 65+, breezing through it, and their shirt is tucked into waiste-high nike sweats. I would have killed to be one of those people today. The recumbent bike became my enemy. "Here, let's put you on this," my psychotic helper told me.
Awesome. After all of my bragging and self-righteous recovery talk, I couldn't get the pedals around! I sat on that damn bike rocking my feet back and forth, never completing a full circle. Ego blow, yes. I tried, I really did. I felt like my knee was going to burst out and barf up hamstring and cadaver graft everywhere if I pushed any harder. It was hell.
My final exercise was simply perfect. I had to lay face down on the table with my legs dangling off. For two minutes. It's what normal people do after a long day of work. It's what young children do when they throw a tantrum. It's what I used to do after an exhausting workout or run (note picture is of me in said position a year ago). Today. Today was different. Today time moved slower than molasses during this lifeless activity, and the irony of laying face down in agony, rather than recovery-laden comfort, was not lost on me. Time was up. Finally.
My new thera-masochist took me back over to the table and had me extend again. I couldn't believe I had to come full circle back to the initial catalyst of what started our entire break up to begin with. I would never forgive her. As long as I lived. I was composing a letter of complaint to the facility in my head as she directed me, but alas, I did as I was told.
I had full extension.
And it didn't hurt.
And then I bent my knee 8 degrees more than I ever had before.
I had no words. I just stared up at her. God, she was pretty. And so sweet.
"Perfect," she said. "I knew we could get it where we wanted. Are you hoping to play soccer at the end of this?"
"I'm considering retiring," I said. Her eyes were like warm little fruits. They smiled without having to try.
"Don't. It's understandable to be scared to play, but we will get you back to full athlete and competitor. I promise." Sparkles dripped down from the ceiling and created a halo around her head.
And then this angel got me my trashy magazine and gently wrapped my knee in ice. She may as well kissed my boo boo. This woman was a miracle worker.
I now refuse to see anyone else for my physical therapy.
No pain. No gain. Challenge accepted.
Well, my bloggy literates, today this phrase haunted me.
I had a new Physical Therapist today. She was really pretty, really nice, and seemed to really know her stuff. I liked her a lot. For 2 minutes.
After a brief intro of myself and my injury this witch took me to new levels of pain. "Your extension is not where it should be," she said. Wait what? Haven't you read my post? I'm pulling a miraculous recovery. I am awesome. I am on AP's level. "Oh," I said. Then she took her dainty little palm and dug miles into my quad. Hollllly everything. It took my breath away. And not in the rom-com knee-buckling way. It felt like my leg was being smashed by a billion boulders double my size and weight. There was no way that it was just the hand of this cute woman. She did this to me for 4 hours. Possibly just a few minutes. But it felt long enough. Then she dug fingers in places on my leg I didn't even know existed. The back of my leg screamed in agony as she held it tight in her armpit and forced her metacarpals behind my poor, recovering knee. WTF?! Is she trying to screw me over with my recovery? I've NEVER had to do this. "Wow, that's pretty tender," I said. "Good thing you're tough," was her response.
She knows my weakness is wanting to personify boldness. How appropriate.
The massage from hell finally ended and I got hooked up to the stimulant patches. No problem. I've done these tons. I usually just sit back and read a magazine during. They gave me no magazine. I didn't realize I'd be reading blazing dots of torture instead.
Ya. She turned those bad boys up so high on my leg, my quad was literally shaking. "That's what we want," the devil PT told me. "We want to get a full contraction. Push! Push down!" If this is any indication of child birth, I'm not sure about my future. I wanted to strangle this woman. I couldn't push any harder. Just shut up and let me push my way. I kept lifting my head to check out my thigh, and my eyes bugged out at the radioactivity taking place on my own body. By the time I finished, I had crazy red patches up and down my leg. I wanted my old PT back.
It gets worse. Ever seen someone on the recumbent bike at the gym? Let me guess. They're 65+, breezing through it, and their shirt is tucked into waiste-high nike sweats. I would have killed to be one of those people today. The recumbent bike became my enemy. "Here, let's put you on this," my psychotic helper told me.
Awesome. After all of my bragging and self-righteous recovery talk, I couldn't get the pedals around! I sat on that damn bike rocking my feet back and forth, never completing a full circle. Ego blow, yes. I tried, I really did. I felt like my knee was going to burst out and barf up hamstring and cadaver graft everywhere if I pushed any harder. It was hell.
My final exercise was simply perfect. I had to lay face down on the table with my legs dangling off. For two minutes. It's what normal people do after a long day of work. It's what young children do when they throw a tantrum. It's what I used to do after an exhausting workout or run (note picture is of me in said position a year ago). Today. Today was different. Today time moved slower than molasses during this lifeless activity, and the irony of laying face down in agony, rather than recovery-laden comfort, was not lost on me. Time was up. Finally.
My new thera-masochist took me back over to the table and had me extend again. I couldn't believe I had to come full circle back to the initial catalyst of what started our entire break up to begin with. I would never forgive her. As long as I lived. I was composing a letter of complaint to the facility in my head as she directed me, but alas, I did as I was told.
I had full extension.
And it didn't hurt.
And then I bent my knee 8 degrees more than I ever had before.
I had no words. I just stared up at her. God, she was pretty. And so sweet.
"Perfect," she said. "I knew we could get it where we wanted. Are you hoping to play soccer at the end of this?"
"I'm considering retiring," I said. Her eyes were like warm little fruits. They smiled without having to try.
"Don't. It's understandable to be scared to play, but we will get you back to full athlete and competitor. I promise." Sparkles dripped down from the ceiling and created a halo around her head.
And then this angel got me my trashy magazine and gently wrapped my knee in ice. She may as well kissed my boo boo. This woman was a miracle worker.
I now refuse to see anyone else for my physical therapy.
No pain. No gain. Challenge accepted.