Last week, I got up off the floor. All by myself, I got up off the floor. That is something I had not been able to do for oh, let's say three years. I did a really dumb thing in my bedroom and as a result took a tumble. To make matters worse, I did not have my brace on - which, as you can imagine, contributed to the initial gymnastic part of this story. I've been practicing getting up in PT, but have not been successful because my new brace doesn't allow me any purchase with my right foot at the toes. I only have the tip of my right toe down to push on that side. An almost 300 lb ballerina I ain't. So I took a different approach, and without sweating the details, I put the brace foot up first and the trumpets sounded. Confetti flew and streamers descended. Thousands of doves were released into the skies. Okay, a sparrow flew by.
But, my Physical Therapist cried and Bobby took me out for a celebratory pizza.
18 months and I'm still slugging away at Physical Therapy.
I wonder if that's some kind of record? Without my physical therapist, I'd still be on the floor. Heck, I'd still be unable to walk into a restaurant, or escort my Aunt up to her apartment on foot, or simply have the balance to carry a knitting bag or a purse and still be able to open a door. She has worked with me through new skills and fast progress to building strength and endurance as we tackle even bigger goals. I believe a lot of people reach a plateau, run out of insurance or money, or just plain give up. My therapist says as long as she sees progress, she will treat me.
And they say the medical profession has gotten jaded and lost it's heart.